


The Second-Breakfast Club

by Angela, Lisafer



Series: '80s Teen Movie Series [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comedy, F/M, Gen, High School AU, LotR High School AU, M/M, Off-screen Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 62,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela/pseuds/Angela, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a shame that they ended up getting detention at all. Sometimes their school was too uptight to be believed. He thought his own detention was pretty sketchy, too, but Elrond himself had doled it out, and protesting would only keep Aragorn on his bad side even longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> _Minas Tirith High School: home of the fighting Dúnedain! ~ two's company but eight is more ~ a plague on the stiff necks of Dwarves and Elves ~ Aragorn has a one-track mind ~ Pippin can't haz cheezburger ~ three rings for the Elven kings under the sky ~ O'Gondor needs no king_  
> 

Sam thought he was going to be sick. He watched his father's car pull out of the empty parking lot and turn down the street, thinking of the disappointed look on his face. “I'll be back for you at two-thirty,” the Gaffer had said sternly, shaking his head. Once the car disappeared around the corner, Sam looked at his feet and trudged up the steps to school. On a Saturday. For detention.

It wasn't that his father thought he'd done the wrong thing – no, he was proud, in his own way, that Sam had stood up for what was right. He supposed the old man was upset that the world had come to that, that his little boy – because of course he was still a child in his father's eyes – was forced to go to such extremes.

Sam himself wasn't sure how he felt about it. Part of him insisted that it was wrong that he was being punished for what could honestly be described as a heroic act. Another part – the larger part, he admitted – was horrified by the whole situation and was glad, at least, that Frodo wouldn't have to sit detention without him.

The doors were locked. Sam glanced toward the very-empty parking lot. Was he early? Was he supposed to go to a different entrance? He wasn't sure. He'd never had detention before. He'd never been in any trouble at all. 

He looked around anxiously. Frodo wasn't there yet. And certainly they weren't the only two kids with detention that week. He hoped they weren't anyway. He was about to head around to the band-hall doors when he noticed someone coming from the opposite side, walking down the sidewalk.

It was Gimli Glóinsson. He was wearing a black hoodie and headphones – even ten feet away, Sam could hear the strains of what he assumed was heavy metal music. Sam knew who he was, though he was pretty sure they'd never talked. Gimli was a junior, and he had a reputation for being a punk – all the usual stuff: fighting, cussing, drugs. Frodo liked him, though, said he was a decent guy. Sam was understandably skeptical.

It was no surprise that he was here, though, Sam realized. Maybe he'd know how to get into the building.

“Hey,” Gimli said, nodding at him. He sat on the step and glanced at the time on his cell phone. 

“Hey,” Sam tried in response. It sounded pretty pathetic in his voice. He tentatively leaned against the wall, watching. Gimli made no move to get up – pulled a pen from his pocket, in fact, and began to doodle on his jeans. Apparently they had to wait.

After a few minutes of watching Gimli draw runes on his legs, Sam was happy to see people starting to show up. Sam recognized all of them, and was surprised to see most of them. First there was Aragorn Elessar, a junior like Gimli. He grinned his hello, including both Gimli and Sam in it. Aragorn wasn't a troublemaker at all, as far as Sam knew. He seemed the type to keep his head down. Sam admired that.

A few minutes later Boromir O'Gondor showed up, not quite as easygoing. Boromir was kind of a legend at Minas Tirith High School – he had broken more athletic records than any student in the school's history. Just then he looked stormy enough to break a few other things. Boromir barely spent a nod on Gimli, but he looked at Sam curiously. “Who's this?” he asked no one in particular. 

Sam swallowed hard. It was the perfect moment for a confident introduction. They were both students at the same school, after all. No need to be intimidated.

When it became clear that Sam wasn't going to say anything, Gimli surprised him by speaking up. “His name's Samwise Gamgee,” he told Boromir, his eyes narrowing like he dared him to make something of it. “Sophomore.”

“I'm in the horticulture club,” Sam blurted. At once he realized how ridiculous he sounded. He ducked his head and adjusted his pack on his back.

Boromir grinned, something easing in his expression. “We have a horticulture club?” he asked incredulously.

Aragorn laughed and lightly punched Boromir's arm. It was a friendly laugh – one that sounded like it could include Sam and Gimli, too. The two friends started chatting, Gimli went back to his music, and Sam went back to leaning against the wall, staring at nothing and feeling generally ill.

He felt a physical sense of relief when Frodo showed up next, climbing out of his uncle's car with a green look that seemed to match the sick feeling in Sam's stomach. Despite the warm spring weather, he wore a scarf around his neck. Noticing this made Sam feel even worse.

“Where's Mr. Elrond?” Frodo whispered to him once he was close.

Sam shrugged. He didn't know why Frodo was asking him – he could usually be counted on to be the last to know anything. 

A black Mercedes pulled up next, carrying Legolas Thranduilion. The blond darted out the door almost before the car stopped, slamming it behind him and not so much as glancing back as he darted lightly up the steps. His expression didn't match his gait, however, even when he pulled out his phone to fiddle with e-mails or texts or to surf YouTube or something. He looked about as woeful as a boy that pretty could look. Sam had never actually met Legolas – he was a senior, after all – but, as with the others, he had a reputation at school. He was possibly the last person Sam had expected to see at Saturday detention.

They were getting restless when Mr. Elrond showed up at last, rod-straight and disapproving as he got out of his Volvo. Sam felt himself shrink back as the vice principal approached, hoping that the tall man didn't take much notice of him while at the same time feeling vaguely ashamed of himself for hoping it. He was relieved when the man's stern attention lit on Gimli first, flicking his headphones with a long finger. “Get rid of these,” he barked.

Apparently, that was all they were getting by way of a greeting. Without singling out anyone else, Elrond unlocked the door. They filed in after him, all conversations falling silent, though Legolas had his phone to his ear. The school was weird on Saturday. Eerie. 

Two huge metal gates were hung from the bulkheads in the ceiling – one blocking off the cafeteria wing and the other blocking the rest of the school, so that only the lobby was accessible. Sam guessed they must roll up during the school day. He wondered what was so valuable that the school felt the need to go into lock-down every weekend.

Mr. Elrond unlocked a metal box on the wall and pulled the lever within it. Sam could see it plainly from where he stood, but he'd never noticed before. The gate that blocked the way to the library lifted. Elrond stopped it low enough that half of them had to duck to get under it when he ordered them all down that hallway.

The lobby outside the school library was lit by a red emergency light that glowed near the fire alarm. It cast a strange, almost demonic glow over the posters and artwork hung there. Sam wished Mr. Elrond would turn on the lights. There was enough of a glow to see by, though not comfortably enough for him. He'd glanced up the staircase as he passed – the window up there cast a creepy sort of glow over the lockers, but at least it was sunlight.

The door to the library was unlocked. “Only two per table, please,” Elrond said, ushering the kids in as he flipped the light switches. The room had been dark – blinds drawn – so Sam was glad when the fluorescent lights thrummed to life. “And Mr. Gamgee, Mr. Baggins, I'd appreciate it if you two sat on opposite sides of the room.”

Without being asked, Gimli crossed to the windows and began opening the blinds.

Sam gulped. With a last look at his best friend, he sat as close to the window as he could get. No one sat with him, but he didn't mind. Upperclassmen made him nervous.

^^^^

Aragorn was the last one to shuffle into the library. Frodo Baggins and his friend were right behind Elrond – obviously scared stiff, the poor kids. “He tried to kill you, Frodo,” the friend was whispering. “Of course they wouldn't put him in the same detention!”

Aragorn had witnessed what went down in the cafeteria with those two and had figured that Frodo would be in the hospital or something; he was surprised to see him there. It was a shame that they ended up getting detention at all. Sometimes their school was too uptight to be believed. He thought his own detention was pretty sketchy, too, but Elrond himself had doled it out, and protesting would only keep Aragorn on his bad side even longer.

Legolas was on the phone as he walked in. Ballsy. But he was a senior – already set for graduation and college – so Aragorn guessed that there wasn't much Elrond could do to him.

“– just call me back this time,” he was saying into his phone. “Please. I really need to talk to you, Glorfindel!” 

“Gesundheit,” Gimli murmured as he took the seat across from Legolas. The blond glared at him, but Gimli just raised his eyebrows and tried to look innocent. Aragorn hid his smile. 

Boromir took the last empty table, so Aragorn tossed his backpack onto the chair next to Frodo. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, already yanking off his jacket.

The little guy shook his head. “You're fine,” he said, shooting for casual and almost, almost making it.

Elrond perched on the librarian's desk, glancing through papers on a clipboard. “Baggins. Elessar. Gamgee,” he read, making marks on his sheet. “Glóinsson. O'Gondor. Thranduilion. How about Brandybuck? Took?” He looked up, a scowl crossing his already stern face. “It looks like we're missing two of our little fellowship,” he said. “I'll be right back. Don't move. Don't speak. I'll be right back.” With a hard look at all of them, he disappeared into the hall.

Frodo shot a glance over to his friend. “Merry and Pippin?” he asked in a stage whisper. “What did they do, Sam?”

The friend shrugged, his eyes wide.

“This is bullshit,” Boromir grumbled. “I can't believe I'm missing practice for this.”

Aragorn gave him a puzzled look. “Track practice isn't until three,” he reminded his teammate. 

Boromir shook his head. “Not that,” he growled. “I'm on an All-Star baseball team this summer. I'm supposed to be pitching.”

“What'd you do to end up here?” Gimli asked.

Boromir scowled. “Apparently my civics teacher doesn't like my attitude,” he complained. “Sent me to Elrond for backtalk or something.”

Not surprising; Aragorn had been in classes with Boromir his whole life. He'd never hesitated to argue his point of view, sometimes going as far as to insist that the teacher was wrong and he was right. Recently it had gotten ugly. “That's what, one session?” Aragorn asked. Boromir nodded.

Gimli chuckled. “One detention?” he scoffed. “I could do that on my head.”

“Only because you have all that frizzy hair to balance on,” Legolas commented quietly.

Gimli wasn't the only one to turn and gape at Legolas. Aragorn knew him pretty well, and though he knew he could be as snide as anyone, had never seen him lash out for no reason like that.

A half smile appeared on Gimli's face. It wasn't a nice one. “Well,” he said, studying his seatmate for a long moment. “It seems the personality doesn't match the face. Good to know.” He pulled his hood back over his hair and, with a loud squeak, turned his chair away from Legolas.

Legolas had the grace to flush. “Sorry,” he mumbled, yanking his phone from his pocket and checking his texts.

At that moment, Elrond returned with two underclassmen in tow. He missed nothing, his sharp eyes narrowing at Legolas. “Sit down,” he ordered the newcomers, directing them to their seats with one hand while plucking the phone from Legolas's fingers with the other. “And what made you think you could use this?” he asked, shaking his head. He slid it into his pocket, ignoring the blond's sputtering protest.

Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took didn't look too worse for the wear, especially considering that they'd been late. Merry slid into a chair across the table from Frodo's friend – Sam Gamgee, was it? – smiling and, surprisingly, from what Aragorn had seen so far, getting a smile back. Pippin looked nervously at Boromir before sitting at his table. The athlete nodded, shoving his bag over to make room.

“Welcome to Saturday detention,” Elrond said then, lacing his fingers together. “This is the first time for some of you, so let me cover some ground rules. There will be no talking, no moving around, no video games, cell phones, or recreation of any kind. And no sleeping.” Aragorn wasn't sure, but it seemed that he looked at Gimli just then. “You may do homework. You may read or write. If I think of anything else, I'll tell you.”

Sam and Merry exchanged a look; Pippin heaved a sigh. Legolas put his chin in his hand, looking miserable. But Aragorn smiled. Now, while Frodo pulled out his homework, he was finally able to do what he came there for. 

He leaned back in his chair and thought about Arwen Undómiel. 

She was the kind of girl a guy could easily spend five hours daydreaming about, with her glossy dark hair and her perfect face. She was smart, too – always at the head of their class and planning to apply to at least one Ivy League school the following year. Plus she had more extra-curriculars than anyone else Aragorn knew, which was pretty impressive. 

“I heard his family was part of The Company.” 

Aragorn glanced up, surprised that someone would dare whisper. Mr. Elrond was famous for his super-human hearing. He saw Merry and Sam across the room, their heads bent close together.

“Aren't they into,” Sam paused, glancing nervously at Gimli, “organized crime?”

Aragorn looked at Elrond – still grading papers or whatever at the librarian's desk. And Gimli. Gimli had his head bent low, his body angled away from Legolas as he hunched over a sketchbook. Neither seemed to hear anything, but Aragorn heard the conversation as clearly as if he'd been at the same table.

“And worse,” Merry said knowledgeably. He, too, shot a glance Gimli's way. “It's the only reason Gimli hasn't been expelled yet.” He was clearly enjoying this.

Frodo bumped Aragorn's arm. Without saying a word, he pointed at the domed ceiling. Aragorn's face must have been as blank as his mind, because the younger boy smiled. “It's a sound arc,” he whispered, barely speaking. “It lets us hear them while no one else can.”

Suddenly Merry's shaggy head whipped around, his eyes widening as they met Frodo's. Sam looked up, startled. The three exchanged grins. Aragorn smiled himself, bemused. He'd been at that school for almost three whole years, and he'd never noticed.

But now that the conversation seemed to be over, Aragorn was free to let his mind wander once more. Arwen was supposed to be playing tennis that morning. Just the thought of her in that tiny white dress made his stomach tighten.

“They aren't a crime family,” Frodo whispered suddenly, his head buried in his book once more. “The Company is into corporate acquisitions.”

The two heads on the other side of the room came up, listening once more. “But we all heard of the Smaug thing,” Merry protested softly.

Frodo shook his head. “Smaug Enterprises did a hostile takeover of a Company property back in the '70s. It took them all this time to get strong enough to get it back.” He turned a page and underlined a paragraph in his chemistry book. Studying at the same time? Aragorn was impressed. “My uncle worked as a consultant on that case.”

Merry looked at Gimli again, his expression a bit more respectful. “So Gimli didn't rob a convenience store last summer?” he asked in a whisper.

Frodo shook his head. “I suppose it's possible,” he said, sneaking a peek at the older boy. “But probably not. He's always been pretty okay to me.”

Aragorn had to bite back a chuckle. People were quick to believe such crazy shit. He'd known Gimli since middle school, and while he fully believed that the guy deliberately helped cultivate his tough-guy reputation, he also knew that most of it was nonsense. He kept himself busy enough that he'd never find the time to embark on a life of crime.

Frodo went into full-on study mode, and it looked like Merry had something to work on – he was silently rolling dice into the nest of his jacket and seemed to be writing the results onto the papers he had spread in front of him. Sam stared out the window. Maybe he liked the spring day, or maybe he had a girl of his own to daydream about.

Ah yes, back to Arwen.

She was Mr. Elrond's daughter. Which wasn't too bad in and of itself, but if he had any intention of getting serious with Arwen – and he absolutely did – he had to be a model student. It was pretty terrible then, that Aragorn found himself thrown in detention. If any other teacher had been the one to find him out, Aragorn was sure he would've gotten only a stern talking-to. But not Elrond – he was hard as flint. One little kiss landed him six weeks of detention. He guessed that was strike one for him.

He found himself echoing Boromir in his mind: _This is bullshit._

^^^^

Merry wasn't sure how he felt about Pippin sitting with Boromir O'Gondor. Sure, it was kind of his own fault, taking the seat next to Sam, but now that he was there, he didn't think he liked it. Boromir looked like he could eat Pip for breakfast. But then the older guy smiled. It was a cranky smile, but Merry got the feeling that the cranky didn't apply to Pip. Maybe the guy had a soft spot for freshmen?

Pippin pulled out a book – a thick tome of some kind of history, no doubt. Pippin Took was as feather-headed a kid as could be sometimes, but for some reason, he really liked to read those history books. Not in the way that Frodo did, even – it wasn't for a grade or a test or to make a teacher take notice. Nope. Pip just read for the sheer pleasure of it. Merry would understand, if he were reading fantasy. Or even mystery novels. But histories? Weird.

With a sigh, Merry turned back to his own work. He had the stats figured for a halfling paladin, but maybe he would be better off with an elf ranger? Or even a rogue? The last module he played had been the most fun – playing a 3.5 edition pseudo-dragon warlock who was pretending to be a wizard's familiar. Never mind that the wizard was actually a rogue with high bluff and use magical device checks. It was awesome.

He wondered what Frodo was planning to play, and contemplated whispering a question once he realized the room's quirk, but then Mr. Gandalf walked in. He was the head guidance counselor, and someone they were all familiar with. Especially those who'd been in detention before.

The grey-haired, wizened old man smiled at the whole room and nodded once at Gimli as he made his way to Mr. Elrond's side. They spoke to one another in low voices, low enough that Merry couldn't catch a word. Pippin was sitting a lot closer to them; he'd make a point to ask him later if he'd heard what was said. 

“It looks like I'm not spending my day with you, after all,” Mr. Elrond announced after just a minute. “Mr. Gandalf has offered to stay while I finish some work in my office.” 

Boromir's chair clattered as he jumped to his feet. “What the hell? You get to go free while we're locked up here? You're the one who put us here! Shouldn't you be the one to oversee the punishment?” 

Merry winced. That took some stones, he thought. And given the expression on Elrond's face, Boromir was going to pay for it.

“Sit down, Mr. O'Gondor.” 

Boromir didn't move. Merry wished he could see his face.

“It looks like you'll be sitting here next Saturday, then,” Mr. Elrond said, his face impassive.

“This is bullshit!” 

“And the following Saturday. Would you like another?”

Boromir's fists clenched, and Merry noticed for the first time how very … meaty ... they were. Like two hams. He hoped this wasn't going where he thought it might. Boromir was a level seven fighter, easy, but Mr. Elrond was harder to read. It would be ugly.

A low chuckle pulled Merry's attention to the table where Gimli and Legolas sat. Legolas was gazing off into the stacks, but Gimli had his eyes on the debacle, a smirk on his face. Aragorn, too, was watching; he shook his head, but his expression was amused. Frodo and Sam were mirrors of each other, both looking uncomfortable as they pretended to be busy. 

Pippin, of course, had his mouth hanging open as he stared at Boromir. “Just let it go,” he hissed.

Boromir looked at Pip, his expression still dark, but then he sighed and dropped heavily into his chair.

“A wise choice, Mr. O'Gondor,” Elrond praised in his monotone. “If Mr, Gandalf has any trouble whatsoever, I will be in my office,” the vice principal said firmly, his eyes trained on Boromir. “So don't think you're off the hook because he's friendlier than I am. I will periodically check in with you.” He gathered his things. “You will eat at noon – I hope you all brought lunch, because you won't be leaving this room.”

Merry glanced around. All the people he knew – Sam, Frodo and Pippin – had their brown paper bags with them. He assumed that Boromir's was in his monster of a gym bag. Aragorn had a backpack and Gimli had his Sharpied messenger bag, covered with band names Merry had never heard of. Legolas only had the pockets of his skinny jeans, and Merry was fairly certain there wasn't any food in those.

Legolas was one of the most popular guys in school. Not because he was an athlete or an Academic All-Ardan. No, he was wealthy and attractive. He also seemed to come and go as he pleased, which Merry suspected had something to do with why he was in detention. Rumor had it he always dated college kids, and liked to skip classes to meet up with them. 

But right now he just looked miserable. Too miserable to eat, maybe? Merry couldn't imagine such a state.

Mr. Elrond left the library, issuing a final warning to behave, and there was a moment of silence. The eight of them exchanged glances – well, seven of them; Gimli immediately returned to his notebook and got to work, hunching over so no one could see what he was writing. Or whatever he was doing.

Mr. Gandalf took a seat behind the circulation desk and logged on to the computer. The room was silent for a long time, save the scratching of pencils and the occasional angry murmur from Boromir's and Pippin's table.

Within forty minutes, Merry was pulled again from his character – he'd finally decided to go with a half-orc berserker named Steve – by the appearance of Ms. Galadriel, the art teacher. The incredibly _lovely_ art teacher.

“Mr. Gandalf!” she cried, putting her hand on the old man's arm. “Just who I needed to see!” It was like her whole body smiled. They stepped out into the hall to talk, Mr. Gandalf promising to be right back.

Merry made a note to schedule an art class for next fall. It would be a pleasure to spend an hour a day in her presence, even if he couldn't draw crap. 

A sigh from the next table drew his attention. He was surprised to see Gimli turned around in his seat, his eyes on the closing door. Legolas looked just as surprised, glancing from Gimli to his notebook – a sketchbook, Merry saw now – suddenly abandoned on the table. Merry couldn't tell what he'd been drawing, but he saw enough of the Gimli's soft, starry expression to realize that he wasn't the only one to notice Ms. Galadriel's particular charms.

^^^^

Gimli hadn't expected to see Galadriel. The sunshine in her voice cut right through the hazy muddle of his thoughts, and suddenly the whole day felt a thousand times better. 

And then she closed the door behind her and he was plunged back into reality. She hadn't seen him. She hadn't even looked. And she was the one teacher that Gimli could count on not to judge him for being in detention again. He would've liked to see her smile – at him, not Gandalf – just once. It would've fixed the whole damn day.

When he turned back to the table, Legolas Thranduilion was looking at his drawing. Gimli snatched it away, closing the sketchbook. “Not for you,” he barked. He inwardly scolded himself for leaving it out. Stupid!

Legolas's face turned from curious to haughty. “No loss,” he said, tossing his hair. What guy tossed his hair? Sure, it was very nice hair, but seriously.

“Suppose they'll be out there long?” This was the freshman. Pippin?

“Who knows? She seemed pretty eager to talk to him,” Aragorn said, stretching his legs and yawning.

“So,” Pippin continued, and Gimli wondered if he were the sort of kid who rambled and couldn't keep quiet. “What'd you do to end up here?”

He was looking at Aragorn, who scowled. “Not enough,” he said. His mind must've wandered into what he'd rather be doing, because a tiny smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Not nearly enough.”

Pippin blinked, apparently unsure whether or not he'd gotten an answer. With a shrug, he turned toward Gimli. “And you?” he asked.

“Same old, same old,” Gimli told him. “Got caught smoking behind the stadium during gym class.” He was getting pretty sick of this game that Elrond had been playing with him. This time he got six weeks for what should be a two-detention offense, tops. It was spring. School was almost out. Usually the teachers let up. Did Elrond really think that six Saturdays of craving nicotine was going to make him give it up and go straight? Not damn likely.

Legolas made a noise. “It's disgusting, the way the cigarette butts pile up back there,” he said.

Gimli wanted to ask him exactly what was _going down_ back there that he had taken such notice, but decided against it. A bit of ribbing was one thing, but he didn't want to out the guy in front of everyone.

“What about you?” he asked instead. “What landed you here?”

Legolas's hands twitched. “I ditched,” he said, averting his eyes. Gimli was pretty sure that there was a whole lot more to the story than that. 

“One class?” Aragorn asked, his brows knitting.

For a moment it didn't look like Legs was going to answer, but then he sighed. “Three days. I drove out to Lórien.”

Lórien, huh? Maybe some of the rumors were true, then. It was basically a college town – only one reason to drive all that way. Gimli wondered if that Glorfindel guy Legolas had been on the phone with went to school there.

Sam Gamgee gave a low whistle, the first indication that he'd been listening. “Did that get you detention for the rest of the school year?” he asked. Gimli thought it was strange that he seemed less afraid of Unapproachable Long-Legs than any of the much-more-normal rest of them.

Legolas nodded. “Pretty much,” he said. He looked sad. Gimli had seen a lot of kids in a lot of different kinds of trouble; he'd bet money that this sadness had nothing to do with detention.

There was a long pause in the conversation – Gimli figured that in a normal situation, Legolas would look at the next guy and ask him. But he'd already turned his head back toward the window, moping again.

“And what about you, Pippin?” Boromir asked. “What kind of trouble can a freshman get into these days?”

Pippin looked uncomfortable, ashamed, even. He exchanged glances with Merry. “Well,” he said slowly, swallowing something he'd been chewing. “We sort of grabbed some food from the lunch room without paying for it.”

Gimli snorted. Most people would call that stealing, but the little guy seemed to think that dancing around the word somehow made it more innocent.

“That's a relatively minor infraction,” Frodo said. He'd turned in his seat, his books open but less interesting, Gimli supposed. “So this is your only day?”

Pippin's face reddened. “Well, it wasn't,” he began, his face screwing up miserably. “It wasn't that minor.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Don't tell me you two are responsible for all the food that's gone missing this year!” 

Gimli couldn't help letting out a low whistle, like Sam's. Everyone had heard about that – there had even been something of code-red emergency vibe about it. Last month an entire ham had been filched from the cafeteria a half hour before the first lunch period. And before that there'd been the missing pizzas, and all of the nachos and cheese. Gimli wondered if there were some kind of cafeteria-food black market; the idea of Pippin with a trench-coat full of french fries and ketchup packets made his fingers itch to draw it.

“Sometimes I forget to eat breakfast,” Pippin said, as if that explained it. “Or I do eat breakfast, and it's not enough to hold me over until lunch time.”

“And sometimes the food just smells so good!” Merry added.

“Or they're serving pizza!” cried Pippin. 

For a moment Gimli was afraid they were about to work themselves into some kind of feeding frenzy, but a shared glance between them seemed to quell their enthusiasm. “So we're here for six weeks,” Merry said glumly.

Six seemed to be the magic number, Gimli thought, as he watched the others. Aragorn and Sam were nodding, and Frodo had a guilty grimace on his face. Legolas had even glanced back at them and snorted. Though Gimli supposed that could've been a snort of derision.

Nothing more could be said, though, because Gandalf chose that moment to come back into the room. 

And Ms. Galadriel was with him. 

Gimli felt that all-too familiar tightness in his chest as she glided into the library. She moved like some kind of supernatural creature, all smoothness and grace with no human awkwardness. She made her way over to his table, causing his heart to stutter. And then she smiled. Warmth spread throughout his body.

“Gimli.” He never loved his name more than when it was on her lips. “I just wanted to let you know that I sent in all the submissions for the contest,” she told him, her voice low and rich. She put one hand on his shoulder and leaned down toward him, the waterfall of her golden hair falling like a curtain between Gimli and the rest of the world. The scent of her shampoo overwhelmed him. “We should know the results in a few weeks. And in the meantime, Mr. Elrond has agreed to let me feature some of your work outside the library lobby.”

Gimli's face went scarlet. Between her nearness as the prospect of his art being outside for everyone to see, he could barely breathe. He managed to murmur his thanks, and then felt a little bereft when she took her hand away.

“I'll see you in class on Monday,” she said in a low voice before leaving the library. His mouth went dry and for a moment all he could manage to do was stare at the floor.

Realizing that he needed to do something or look like a complete idiot, he turned back to his table, to his sketchbook. He flipped to a new page and began a new image, his pencil running quickly and lightly over the coarse paper. A loose hair tumbled down onto the page, and he moved to brush it away. He froze when he realized that it wasn't one of the curly, auburn strands from his own head.

It was sleek and golden.

He glanced toward the door where she had disappeared, an impulse to call after her half-formed in his mind. But that was ridiculous. This strand of her hair was nothing. Not nearly as precious as his hammering heart would lead him to believe. He wrapped it around his finger, then around again and again. It was strong like wire and caught the light like gold. It cut off the circulation to his fingertip, and he watched his skin turn pink and then an angry red-violet.

“You'll lose your finger, if you keep that up.” Gimli lifted his head sharply. Legolas was watching him, but his expression wasn't the smirking superiority he'd been expecting. Instead his face was open. Understanding?

He loosened the strand of hair and held it looped around his finger, unsure where to put it. He wanted to keep it, but he wasn't at all thrilled with the idea of Legs _knowing_ that he wanted it.

“You could use one of your stickers,” the senior suggested, nodding to his sketchbook. Like all of his drawing pads, its cover was littered with doodles and stickers. Gimli carefully peeled one of the newer ones off, and, sliding Ms. Galadriel's hair from his finger, he secured the loop of it onto the page he was sketching. He smoothed down the sticker's edges. It was only a temporary fix, but he figured it would hold until he got home.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, looking down.

“I get it.” Legolas's tone was aloof, but when Gimli was finally able to look up at him, the boy was smiling. He'd seen that smile before – in the halls and with Tauriel – but not that day. Not for a while, he suspected. 

For a time the room was quiet. He sketched and listened to Legolas as he returned to his sighing and gazing into space. He heard Pippin and Boromir pretty well, too: Pippin rustling food wrappers and Boromir mumbling numbers under his breath as he did what Gimli could only assume was his math homework. He didn't know why he could hear them so well, but it was always like that in that seat.

Lunch, as always, was announced with the piercing ring of a bell. Minas Tirith High School had an old-fashioned bell system. It was unnecessarily loud, and was so jarring that they'd limited its use over the years. Instead of ringing the bell at the end and beginning of all nine periods throughout the day, it was now used only for the end of the day and the three mid-day classes – the three class periods when the cafeteria was open. On Saturdays it rang only twice – at noon and then forty minutes later. He'd been in detention often enough to be grateful. Listening to it six times might constitute cruel and unusual punishment.

Gimli winced at the sound, but also followed its cue. He reached for his bag and pulled out a Gladware container. Nothing like a roast beef sandwich to get a person through another boring detention. He fished for his can of Orange Crush, wishing it were colder.

“Ugh, why is that bell so loud?” Frodo asked, the slowest to recover from the ring. He was looking at the ceiling like it might fall down on him.

“Sauron's suggesting that we change it,” Merry replied. “It's one of his student body president campaign promises.”

“ _One Ring to Rule Them All_ ,” Legolas quoted, once again showing a modicum of interest in their conversation. “That's the poster outside the auditorium. I wondered what it meant.”

Merry nodded. Gimli thought he seemed happy to be the one with the information. “Yep. He says that we'll just use it at the end of the day, to indicate that school's out.” 

“That's worth a vote,” Sam commented, shaking his head and chomping on the end of a carrot.

“You're kidding, right?” Boromir asked, his wide smile more an indication of a sense of absurdity than any kind of amusement. “He's an asshole! And I'm running against him!”

“I hadn't heard you were campaigning,” Frodo said softly.

“You can't run against someone without at least putting up a poster or two!” Merry cried, despite his mouthful of Doritos. “How're you supposed to get our votes if you don't tell us what you stand for? Are you expecting to win because you're Boromir O'Gondor, the most famous jock in the world?”

Boromir growled, those fists clenching. “Shut up!”

“Guys, knock it off!” Aragorn stood up at his own table, palms resting on either side of his Lunchable. 

Gimli glanced at the circulation desk, where Gandalf was watching. He looked intrigued rather than concerned; he had his cheek propped up with one fist and studied them all. _Bemused_ was the first word Gimli thought of, but what kind of guidance counselor would just watch a fight start?

“We don't need to have another lunch brawl, do we?” Aragorn asked, his voice still strong, but less threatening. “That may be too much, even for this sorry school.”

Gimli snickered, and eyed Frodo. The kid was as red as the apple he'd just bitten, and shot a quick, miserable glance at Sam. 

“What was that fight about yesterday, anyway?” Merry asked. The million-dollar question. Everyone in school was talking about it – guys like Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee just don't get into fistfights in the cafeteria.

Frodo looked uneasy. He wasn't going to talk and Gimli hardly blamed him. It was a nasty tussle, if even half of what he'd heard was true.

Gimli hadn't been there; he'd been by the Coke machine, bumming a cigarette off Ori. But he'd gotten back in time to see Elrond hauling Sam and Frodo away by their collars. He glanced over at Legolas, raising his eyebrows. He was in the same lunch period – maybe he'd seen something.

That's when he noticed that Legs hadn't pulled out anything to eat – not that he'd had any place to carry it, come to think of it. He gestured toward the last half of his sandwich. The blond shook his head and turned his attention back to Frodo.

“Sméagol just attacked him,” Sam blurted out. Seven pairs of eyes trained in on him – eight, if you counted Gandalf. “He came out of nowhere and started flying at Frodo, completely unprovoked! Frodo was only defending himself!”

“Sam –” Frodo looked ill.

“And when I saw he was choking him, I couldn't just stand there doing nothing!”

Gimli nodded. So the choking bit had been true. That explained why Sméagol wasn't with them in detention. Kids had been saying that he'd been expelled and hauled off to Mirkwood Academy. The guy hadn't been all there, but Mirkwood? That place was hardcore.

“I heard he's at Mirkwood now,” Merry offered.

Frodo looked pale. Green, even. “Really?” he asked softly, his eyes stricken. He looked at Sam. “Did you hear that?” Sam shook his head.

Gimli looked away. He had known some guys who'd spent time in that place, and it wasn't pretty. It was where they sent the worst of the problem kids; every week after detention he had to hear lectures from his father about all the reasons he needed to clean up, all the reasons he should avoid being sent there.

Sam was getting into it. “I knocked the stinker's head with my lunch tray,” he said eagerly. “I've never hit a guy before, it was the only way I could get him off Frodo.”

“Sam,” Frodo protested again, clutching the scarf around his neck. His voice was stronger this time, a warning in it.

“But,” Sam looked puzzled. “I don't really understand what got him started in the first place. There was yelling and name-calling, and he said something about Frodo stealing his ring –”

“Sam!” 

Sam finally looked across the room at Frodo, who was glaring at him. “Sorry,” he mumbled, returning to his carrot.

Frodo glanced around at the expectant faces and sighed. “It was really stupid,” he said softly. “Sméagol, he– I guess I let things get out of hand.”

Aragorn put his hand on Frodo's shoulder. “It happens,” he said, his voice friendly. Frodo looked around nervously, seemingly afraid there'd be questions. “At least you're not hurt too badly,” the older boy continued. “I saw him grab you and if Sam hadn't swung at him, I would've myself.”

Suddenly Legolas jumped up and strode over to Gandalf's desk. “Elrond took my phone,” he told him, direct with only a hint of jumpy. “Did he give it to you? I need to make a call.”

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged a glance. Another phone call? 

Gandalf mumbled something Gimli couldn't hear, but it must've turned out to be no, because a moment later, Legolas threw himself back into his seat, his eyes stormy. “Elrond has no right to take my phone,” he grumbled.

Aragorn stood up and fished his own cell out of his pocket. Taking a few steps, he slid it across Legolas's and Gimli's table. “Use mine.”

The transformation was striking. The blond's face lit up and his slumped body straightened as his long fingers curled around the phone. “I just need to check my messages,” he said. “Thanks!”

He raised the phone over his head, tossing a question to Mr. Gandalf. The guidance counselor nodded and motioned toward the door. “Stay right near the door,” he cautioned as Legolas grabbed the handle. With a loud _click_ , it closed behind him.

The rest of the detention class exchanged perplexed glances. “That was quick,” Boromir commented. “I thought we were talking about Frodo and Sam, and then –”

“I think he's had something on his mind,” Frodo offered. Understatement of the year, Gimli thought. That guy had been miles away all day – almost like he was sleeping with his eyes open.

“Trouble with his girlfriend?” Sam offered.

Gimli swallowed a snicker. Aragorn looked at his fingernails.

“He's always with that tall red-headed girl – what's her name?” Boromir asked.

“Tauriel,” Merry offered. 

“That's the one.” Boromir tore open an energy bar and took a big bite. “She's in the school plays and does all kinds of artsy shit.”

Artsy shit? Gimli narrowed his eyes. “She's not his girlfriend,” he said, because he didn't want to say what he was thinking about the idiotic ways Boromir spent his time.

“No?” Merry asked eagerly.

“No. She's seeing one of my cousins. I think it's kind of serious.” Kíli hadn't brought Tauriel home to meet the parents yet, but there were plans to take a trip to the Grey Havens that summer.

“You sure?” Boromir asked. “They spend every waking moment together.”

This led to a discussion about whether or not Tauriel could be two-timing both Legolas and Gimli's cousin. “Maybe that's why he's so miserable,” Sam offered. Merry tried to suggest that Tauriel and Legs might just be friends, but it was generally dismissed. Over the heads of the others, Aragorn caught Gimli's eye and smiled wryly.

Pippin made a miserable moaning sound under the cacophony of voices. Gimli looked over at him, and was startled to note that the freshman was gazing at Boromir's mouth with a hungry look that, for a second, made Gimli flush. But then he realized that it was because he was hungry. It wasn't the athlete he was craving so much as the food he'd just eaten.

“I thought you brought your lunch with you this morning,” he said.

A comically guilty look crossed Pippin's face.

Gimli tried not to laugh. He failed.

^^^^

The freshman was hungry. Boromir had watched him eat his entire lunch – and there had been plenty of it – bit by bit, starting about twenty minutes after they arrived. “Here,” he said, pushing his gym bag toward the kid. “They're good.” He never went anywhere without protein bars – not when he was trying to add muscle mass, at least.

Obviously grateful, Pippin grabbed several and took no time about tearing into one. Boromir had never seen a person devour food so efficiently. All the food-theft since the start of the school year was beginning to make a lot more sense.

“You know, those are really filling.” Legolas glanced over as he stormed back through the room a few minutes later. He stiffly handed Strider his phone. “You probably don't want to eat too many at once,” the blond advised Pippin, his voice tight but not unfriendly.

Boromir smirked at the growing pile of wrappers. “I think we're a bit too late for that,” he said. Pippin at least had the decency to look a little ashamed of himself.

Any other additional quips were stymied by the long, piercing bell. Boromir flinched. _One Ring to Rule Them All_ , indeed, he thought angrily. 

“Back to your work,” Mr. Gandalf said wearily. Crankily. Like this was the last place he wanted to be on a Saturday. 

Join the club. This day had been a complete waste – except maybe to show him that no one planned to vote for him in the election. God, he hated that Sauron guy. He was such a brown-noser – sharing classes with him since kindergarten meant years of putting up with his kissing up. It was made worse by the fact that the kid was a jerk, plain and simple. He bullied other students, cheated on tests, and yet always came out of things smelling clean and fresh while others took the fall. 

If it turned out to be a contest of popularity, Boromir knew he could take it. Sure, he wasn't the Miss Congeniality of MTHS – that honor belonged to Strider – but everyone knew him. He'd led their football team to the playoffs. He'd wrestled his way into the national championship. He had broken his own javelin record twice now, and had even managed to save the swim team at the last minute, anchoring the 4x4 medley when their usual freestyler had fallen ill. Everyone knew Boromir O'Gondor's name, and most people liked him a whole lot more than they liked Sauron.

But Sauron had the reputation for brains. People assumed that because he was taking AP classes and was challenged only by Arwen Undómiel for likely valedictorian next year, he must be the right choice to lead the school. Never mind that student council presidents didn't actually need to be smart. This year's senior class president, Fredegar Bolger, wasn't more than an average student. The whole position was nothing but college-application bullshit pretending.

Worst of all was that Boromir didn't even want to run. He didn't need anything spiffing up his college applications, since he was almost guaranteed a full athletic scholarship. Scouts had been looking at him since his sophomore year. He could probably go straight to the minors and skip out on college altogether, if he weren't concerned about being a role model for his little brother.

And really, that was why he was running for student council president at all. Well, his father was pushing him to do it, but Faramir was who Boromir really cared about. He wanted to show him that winning was always on the table, if you really wanted something. If you put in enough effort.

But he didn't want this. And he wasn't putting in any effort. 

He guessed he needed slogans. What were the catchy slogans they'd covered in history class? Maybe the freshman would know – he had spent the day with his nose in a random history book. Now he was back to it, absent-mindedly tugging on his lip while he flipped through the pages.

 _O'Gondor for President_. That was a nice place to begin. Clean and simple. Nothing farfetched. No promises that couldn't be kept. Maybe Faramir would enjoy helping him design some posters. They could slip into his mother's old arts and crafts closet – she'd loved things like that. Their father wouldn't care for them getting in there, but he was easy enough to distract. Stick a computer in front of him and he was lost for hours, surfing the internet and reading dumb conservative blogs.

“Ms. Galadriel works quickly. Your painting's already displayed outside the door.”

Boromir's head snapped up, and he glanced over at the table Legolas and Gimli shared. Gandalf wasn't reacting, and neither was anyone else. And their voices weren't the loud stage whispers everyone shared the moment a grown-up left the room – they were genuine whispers. Weird.

“Which one?” Gimli asked.

“A still-life. One where you have fruit looking like they were made of gems. Pretty cool.”

Boromir sighed. It figured he'd be trapped in detention with nerds and artsy types. At least Strider – that was Aragorn's nickname among the track team – was there. They'd been friends since middle school, when Boromir had attempted distance running. Their paths had crossed a lot in high school, but most often during the track season.

As if cued by Boromir's thought, Aragorn left his seat and crossed over to the circulation desk to speak to Gandalf.

“What's he doing?” Pippin whispered. 

“Dunno,” Boromir murmured. He turned back toward his forgotten math homework, but found he couldn't pay any attention to the problems. Strider still hadn't said what he was in here for, and Boromir wanted to know. It wasn't like him to get in trouble – he wasn't exactly a goody-two-shoes, but he was the kind of guy who knew how to fly under the radar.

“You know this is bogus,” Aragorn was saying to Gandalf, his voice low, but insistent. “I wasn't even _doing anything_! I kissed her in the hallway. If that's worth a detention – _six detentions_ – then this room should be packed with kids.”

“You know it's more complicated than that,” Gandalf replied. “Mr. Elrond has addressed this as a case of sexual harassment.”

“What the hell? How did he say I harassed her?”

“He indicated that your advances were unwanted and inappropriate.” Gandalf's face darkened. “And you know it's not your first offense.”

“Oh, come on!” Strider's exasperation caught the attention of just about everyone in the room. Seeing his angry expression, most of them just as quickly turned back to their tasks. Boromir dropped his own eyes to his homework, but his attention was focused on his friend's conversation. 

Strider continued his protest, but this time in a whisper that Boromir had to strain to hear. “You know that Éowyn started that. She cornered me on the bus and just started kissing me!”

Boromir remembered that. It had been last fall – maybe October or November – while they were coming back from a field trip. Éowyn had made it pretty clear from the day she transferred that she had eyes only for Aragorn. She'd pursued him recklessly, and Boromir didn't think Strider had done nearly a good enough job showing her he wasn't interested. Sure, she'd initiated that kiss, but he didn't remember his friend resisting. Rather the opposite, in fact.

But he'd been with Arwen for a while now. At least since February. Teachers never knew who was dating who, though Mr. Elrond had no excuse on those grounds, since Arwen was his daughter. 

Come to think of it, that might be the source of the trouble.

“And you know that Mr. Elrond is going to be very sensitive regarding anything dealing with Arwen,” Gandalf said meaningfully, apparently coming to the same conclusion as Boromir. 

“Well, yes.” 

“You know he's never going to continue to let her date you if you're someone who's in and out of detention.”

“But you know as well as I do that I don't deserve this!”

“Maybe not, but he believes you do.” Gandalf sighed. “Are you sure you weren't pressuring her?”

Boromir snorted. Those two were the soppy romantic types, passing notes to one another during lit class and holding hands in the hall. After school she was usually seen at his locker, flirting and kissing on him. Still, he supposed it was possible that she'd changed her mind.

“Absolutely sure,” Strider said through gritted teeth. 

“There's only one thing you can do, then.” Gandalf rested both hands neatly on the stack of papers in front of him.

“What's that?”

“Earn his respect.” 

Aragorn and Boromir sighed in unison, one from frustration and the other from boredom. Unlike his friend, Boromir had no interest in pledging himself to some girl in a relationship that wouldn't likely last through college. He had too much to work for to risk it all on kisses and awkward fumbling in the back seat of his Jeep.

He shook his head and focused again on his algebra problems. He wasn't the best of students, but he always stayed on the honor roll to make sure his status on various teams was never threatened. So he launched into his homework with as much gusto as boxer attacking a sandbag.

The afternoon passed quickly while he focused on his work. Pippin occasionally distracted him with soft murmurs as he came across interesting facts, but otherwise the group was silent as they each busied themselves. 

Mr. Elrond came back around twenty after two, seemingly prepared to scold them for another ten minutes before they'd finally be permitted to go home. Gandalf was relieved, and did not hide it. 

“This has been a pleasure,” he said, packing his papers into a worn briefcase. “Let's hope we do not repeat it any time soon.” His gaze turned pointedly to Elrond as he said this.

Boromir and the others gathered their belongings in relative quiet; Merry and Pippin exchanged a few words – plans for some sort of game in the evening. Strider instantly pulled out his phone and began scrolling through emails. Gimli, Sam, and Frodo made their way to the door in silence, Legolas trailing behind. The blond angrily plucked his cell phone out of Elrond's hand as he passed.

“Next week, then,” Boromir said to Elrond, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder.

“Next week and the following, Mr. O'Gondor. Let's not try to add any more to that.”

Boromir left the library and followed the others down the hallway, rolling his eyes only after he was well past the assistant principal. Bullshit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The student council of Elrond ~ “Why don't you do all this work; I'll meet you in Bree.” - Gandalf ~ Everybody was kung-fu fighting! ~ “The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!” ~ Boromir's not crying – he just has something in his eye ~ #Ocean's Eleven ~ “Forth, three hunters!”_

The next Saturday started out very much the same as the one before. Frodo arrived after everyone else, even Merry and Pippin. He said goodbye to Bilbo and trudged up the concrete steps, feeling foolish in his scarf on such a mild day but unable to face going without it. 

Boromir, in a much better mood this time, it seemed, was the first to say hi. He had Pippin in a cheerful-looking headlock, but looked up as Frodo approached. “It looks like the last of our team is here,” he observed.

Pippin looked up through the mop of his bangs and grinned. “Hiya, Frodo,” he said. “Boromir is teaching me to wrestle.”

“You mean he's teaching you to lose,” Merry quipped. He sat on a step nearby, barely glancing up from his DS to speak.

Sam laughed, and for a moment, it almost didn't feel like detention.

Gimli sat on the top step, a murmur of noise leaking from his headphones. He was drawing on his jeans again – tiny starbursts that started at his knee and radiated up his thigh. Legolas sat next to him, ear buds tucked under the cascade of his hair, texting with an enthusiasm that made Frodo's thumbs ache. He looked happier this week. Not a lot, but the difference was noticeable.

Aragorn gave a welcoming nod as Frodo settled his back against the wall next to Sam. He smiled, but it didn't seem to reach his eyes. Frodo wondered what was wrong. He hadn't known the older boy for long, but he always seemed to have a peaceful sort of happiness about him. It was strange to see him without it.

By the time Mr. Gandalf arrived, Frodo was starting to think of the eight of them as – well, not friends, exactly – but something like it. What had Mr. Elrond called them last week? A fellowship? He'd meant it sarcastically, but the word sounded right to him. He liked the way Sam smiled as he watched Boromir and Pippin tussle. And the way Legolas and Gimli looked like a unit, even though they were doing different things.

Gandalf smiled at him as he fished his keys from his oversized grey jacket. “Feeling sentimental, Frodo?” he asked kindly as he unlocked the door. “You have a light in your eyes.”

He looked at his shoes, feeling guilty for being happy, if only for an instant. Even worse, for looking like he was happy. Bilbo always told him that he wore his heart on his sleeve. It never bothered him before, but it was no good now that he was so conflicted all the time. He'd rather no one could see what was going on inside him.

“I thought we were getting Elrond again,” Aragorn commented, picking his backpack up from the ground.

The old man made a face. “I thought so too,” he said. “But it seems that he is needed elsewhere. Taking his daughter to the airport, I am told.”

Frodo watched for Aragorn's reaction, remembering what he and Gandalf had spoken about the week before. The older boy's expression shuttered just a bit, but he wasn't surprised by the news. “She's doing a mock UN council,” he offered. “She'll be gone all week.”

“So that explains the glum face,” Samwise whispered into Frodo's ear.

Gandalf ushered them all inside, where the blips from Merry's game seemed to echo in the silence. The school was creepy on Saturdays. The old man raised the gate. “Come along,” he told them, waving them beneath the partition and down the dim hallway toward the library. “Put it away, Mr. Brandybuck,” he added as Merry walked past him, head bowed over his game.

Legolas walked just ahead of Frodo. “I'm gonna turn my phone to silent,” he told Aragorn, who shuffled along nearby. “They're not going to take it from me this time.”

Frodo almost smiled. The senior had obviously forgotten that he'd lost his phone not because it was loud, but because he'd been blatantly texting when Mr. Elrond came back. He suspected that keeping it on silent wouldn't help in that arena.

They all ended up in the same seats as the week before. Frodo didn't know if he and Sam were supposed to be separated again, but he decided not to take a chance. Aragorn was a nice guy, and, to tell the truth, he got more homework done without Sam's chatter. It was very pleasant chatter, of course, but it was still a distraction.

He pulled out his books as Mr. Gandalf went over the basic rules. More chemistry this week. And advanced algebra. Plus he needed to write a paper on the Volsunga Saga for his world lit class. He flipped through his worn translation of the Norse myth, wondering how to make the story of Sigurd and the Ring into anything that might interest someone who had probably read a couple hundred nearly-identical papers before.

The ring. Frodo let his book fall shut. His stomach fluttered and he wished he hadn't eaten breakfast.

He wondered if he would ever feel normal again. All week there had been so many questions, but as he found himself answering the same ones over and over again, he discovered that the rehearsed quality of the words made them easier. _What were you and Sméagol fighting about?_ Just a disagreement that got out of hand. _Did he really try to strangle you?_ You know, I hardly remember the details. _Do you know anything about that ring he was yelling about?_ No – he would usually try to laugh here – I have no idea what he was talking about.

Checking first to be sure that Aragorn was occupied by his own work, Frodo slid his hand into his pocket.

It was smooth and cool. Comforting in spite of its questionable origin. Frodo held the polished gold between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it slowly. He didn't even really understand why he'd taken it, but he found he liked it. Holding it, touching it, was the only thing that worked to ease his upset at the thievery itself.

He wasn't a thief. He'd never stolen anything in his life, but when he saw the ring, hanging on its string from the branch of that crab apple tree, he instantly wanted it. He saw Sméagol and the others kicking a ball nearby, knew it probably belonged to one of them, but he suddenly found he didn't care. They shouldn't have left it there, dangling in the afternoon sunshine like that, if it was precious.

It was easy. A quick grab and then he turned to go. He didn't know Sméagol, didn't know any of the kids he was playing with. They'd never think that he was the one who took the ring; they might not even realize it had been taken. Things get lost every day. Small things especially.

He felt sick even before he left the park. He stood by the street, unable to move forward. He liked the ring, but he wasn't a thief. Was he? He turned back, at once determined to put it back where he found it.

Sméagol stood by the crab apple tree, watching him.

Frodo's breath caught and his hand snaked into his pocket, releasing the ring into it. Then, with a casual nod toward Sméagol, he turned and walked home.

Sméagol's attack, two days later, shouldn't have been a surprise. The guy had been following him. Maybe he'd been waiting for a chance to catch him alone, but got frustrated when no opportunity presented itself. He had to have been out of his mind, to jump him in the middle of the cafeteria. 

Thank goodness for Sam, Frodo thought, reaching up to rub his neck. 

Frodo had confirmed with Gandalf that he'd been sent to Mirkwood. The counselor told him as though it would be a comfort. Maybe it should have been. But Frodo had heard all the rumors about that place.

“He's only there because of me,” he said softly. Aragorn looked up at him, his expression both curious and concerned. “Sméagol,” he explained. He didn't know why he was telling him. He hadn't told Bilbo or Mr. Gandalf or even Sam.

“He was strangling you,” Aragorn reminded him seriously. “He wasn't planning to stop.” 

“I know, but–” What Frodo knew with his head and what he felt in his gut were vastly different things. “But what if he had a good reason to come after me?” he asked, his voice barely making a sound. 

Aragorn looked at him, curious and disbelieving. Frodo held out one shaking fist, opening it slowly to reveal the ring. “I stole this,” he confessed to Aragorn. “I stole this from Sméagol.”

^^^^

Boromir pulled out his hand grip and began working on strengthening exercises with his left hand while jotting down some lit notes with the right. This was going to be a long day, if all he had homework-wise was to analyze some centuries-old play about a prince losing his marbles.

He supposed could come up with more campaign ideas, but he found that he wasn't interested without Faramir. His brother had given him some great suggestions, and they'd designed a few posters together. When they had walked into the building that morning, Merry had looked up a moment to study one of them. At least now he couldn't complain about not knowing who was running.

“Aragorn, do you have a moment?” Mr. Gandalf asked, his voice gruff but kind. Boromir knew that voice. It was the guidance counselor voice. The voice of the adult who was about to meddle and call it help. Boromir had heard it a lot since his mother died.

Strider rose from his seat and crossed over to the circulation desk. “What is it?” he asked, seeming to take the old man more seriously than Boromir had expected. Aragorn was never disrespectful, but sometimes he came off as haughty, aloof. With Mr. Gandalf, though, he seemed to genuinely respect his advice.

“I've been thinking,” Gandalf began slowly. “What you need is Mr. Elrond to recognize your merit as a suitor for his daughter, correct?”

Boromir tried to cover his snicker with a cough, but all he got for it was a glare from Strider and a kick under the table from Pippin.

“Perhaps one thing that would show your worthiness would be a position of prominence and respect among your fellow students,” the guidance counselor continued.

“Such as?” Strider asked warily.

But Boromir knew exactly where this was going. “You've got to be kidding!” he exclaimed, throwing the hand grip onto his open lit book. He was all in favor of helping his friend date his girlfriend with minimum hassle from her dad, but not at his own expense. 

“What is it?” Pippin asked, looking up from his book with wide eyes. Boromir glanced wildly around the room, seeking, he realized, an ally. Instead he got seven startled faces, Gimli's already sliding into a sarcastic grin.

“Gandalf's about to suggest that Strider should run for student body president!” Boromir cried, outraged.

“That's not a bad idea,” Sam piped up, shrugging. Merry and Frodo nodded.

“It is not, indeed,” Gandalf said, a playful smile springing up beneath his beard. “I was going to suggest that Aragorn become a peer tutor, but winning the presidency would get him quite a bit more respect, I think.” He winked at Boromir. “Good thinking, Mr. O'Gondor.”

Boromir closed his eyes, a sudden pain in his forehead. He rubbed at it with one hand as he tried to figure out exactly what he was feeling. “Did you already forget that I'm running?” he asked at last. He didn't know why he'd expected some kind of loyalty from these guys, but somehow he had.

“No,” Legolas said absently. “Not since you've put posters up.”

The athlete was struck dumb.

“This could really help Aragorn,” Pippin offered in a cautious tone. “And you don't really want to be president, do you?”

It was the question he'd been expecting from Faramir. The one he'd been hoping for from his father. Boromir didn't even have to think about it. No. It was ridiculous. It was a stupid ploy for attention – like pledging for the same fraternity that your father was in, and his father, and his father's father.

Denethor O'Gondor's high school years had taken a certain, predictable direction. Record-breaking athlete. Honor student. Student-body president. And then, at graduation, he gave the tear-inducing kind of speech that paraphrased his award-winning college admissions essay. To make matters worse, Boromir's entire line of ancestors had been similarly brilliant at life, it seemed. His father pinned his every last hope on him, ignoring the fact that Faramir was actually perfect for this sort of thing.

But right at that moment, Pippin was looking at him expectantly. “Do you even have to ask?” he growled at him. He couldn't outright lie to his new friend, but he wasn't able to betray his family's honor – such as it was – either. He looked over at Strider and Gandalf. “Are you serious about this?”

Strider looked troubled. “Do you really think it'll help me with Mr. Elrond?” he asked the guidance counselor.

Gandalf nodded. “He was terribly disappointed when Arwen decided not to run herself. She already had so much on her plate, after all, but apparently this is a position that has significant meaning to her father.”

The boy grimaced, his eyes darting to Boromir's for an instant before falling to Frodo. “What do you think?” he asked. The question surprised Boromir. Shocked him, really. There wasn't any reason in the world that Strider should defer to Frodo Baggins.

Frodo looked from Aragorn to Boromir and back again. It looked like he was really considering his answer, which Boromir found he grudgingly respected. “I think you would be good at it,” he said after a moment.

“And you, Boromir? Do you think I should try?” He looked like he really wanted his approval, but Boromir figured that he was going to do it no matter what he said.

“I suppose a bit of competition would make things interesting,” he told his friend. Strider wasn't the kind of friend you wanted to lose – not for something as stupid as a school election. He took a few steps across the library and offered his hand to Aragorn. “May the best man win.”

“Yeah,” Strider said, his smile changing from tentative to genuine. “May the best man win,” he echoed.

When Boromir sat back down, Pippin was looking at him curiously. The athlete raised his eyebrows. “What?” he asked softly, glancing back to where Gandalf and Aragorn were still talking quietly near the front desk. He was lucky he hadn't gotten another detention already, he realized.

Pippin shook his head and looked down at his book. Boromir shrugged and picked up his hand grip.

“But why run?” Pippin asked a moment later. “I mean, you really don't want to, do you?”

He looked up sharply. The freshman looked at him candidly, most of his earlier shyness pushed back by curiosity. Something about his face was disarming, and Boromir was suddenly weary of this whole game. He shook his head. “I'm not going to bail on this,” he told him. “Not even if it means Strider gets to live happily ever after.”

Pippin's eyes narrowed just a bit. Disapproving? “Whatever,” the kid said simply, glancing back into his book.

It's not that simple, Boromir wanted to tell him. He wanted to explain about his father. About his brother. He wanted to tell Pippin about how alive he felt when he threw a two-seam fastball and how it made him sick to his stomach to speak in front of an audience. But Faramir was the only one he told things like that.

Instead, he shrugged. His Shakespeare paper was due Monday. No point getting all upset over the disapproval of a freshman.

“Mr. Gandalf?” Frodo raised his hand nervously. “I want to help Aragorn run for president, if I can.” He looked hesitantly at Strider.

“Me too!” Merry chimed in. “I can be your campaign manager, if you want. I'm really good at organizing data.”

Boromir tried not to look up from his homework. He didn't want them to know that it stung to hear them offer up their support to Strider, just like that.

Gandalf laughed, delighted. “Certainly!” he cried. “I'm sure that Aragorn will accept all the help he can get, coming into the race so late. In fact, I'm willing to allow these remaining hours of detention to be used for campaign planning.”

Suddenly, Gimli's head shot up. “I'm in!” he called out.

Legolas said nothing, but Boromir watched as Gimli kicked him under their table. “The remaining hours of detention,” he hissed under his breath, his eyes widening for emphasis.

The blond blinked sleepily. “Oh,” he said softly. Then he looked over at Gandalf and Aragorn, his smile transforming him. “I would love to help, too!” he added.

It was interesting to see just what it took to move Legolas Thranduilion into action – any action that wasn't related to his cell phone or his extra-curricular relationships, that is. Apparently a nudge from Glóinsson and the promise of laxed rules did the trick these days. Boromir had no particular beef with the guy, but his too-obvious apathy for all things school-related had pissed him off more than once over the years.

“I suppose I can throw my lot in as well,” Sam chimed in softly. “Though I'm not sure how much help I'll be.”

Keeping his head down, Boromir shifted his eyes up toward Pippin. To the kid's credit, he looked conflicted.

“I should go to the office and file the paperwork,” Gandalf suddenly decided. He patted Aragorn's shoulder – Boromir was pleased to see that his friend looked overwhelmed and a bit befuddled. “If your candidacy is official by Monday morning, then you can start hanging posters right away!” He bustled out of the library, leaving the rest of them to look incredulously at one another.

“Did he just leave?” Aragorn asked, still standing, aghast, by the front desk.

“He sure did,” Gimli confirmed, a laugh in his voice. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table before him. “And I intend to enjoy it.”

For a confused moment everyone whispered, wondering how long Mr. Gandalf would be gone. But as the minutes ticked past, they grew bolder. Gimli sat on a table, chatting with Aragorn – Boromir assumed they were talking about the campaign, but then Gimli rolled up his pants-leg, revealing a large, detailed tattoo of a dragon that wrapped around his calf and shin.

It looked awesome, and Boromir wanted to go over and check it out, but something held him back. Instead, he turned to Pippin, who was leaning over their table, craning his neck to see something that Merry was doing. Boromir lightly flicked his pencil against Pippin's wrist. “Hey.”

Pip glanced down at him. “Yeah?” he asked, cautious but friendly.

“Looks like Gandalf's not coming back any time soon. Want me to show you some more wrestling moves?”

^^^^

Gandalf didn't come back until lunch and in that time, Boromir had shoved two of the tables back and Pippin learned how to do some Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Not a lot, just some simple arm locks, choke holds, and something called a key lock that his legs were almost too short to manage. It was easier once Merry joined in – grappling with someone closer to his own size made a huge difference.

“I did some of this on the 360 in _Supremacy MMA_ ,” Merry had said as he watched Boromir teaching Pippin the first few moves. “But it's much more interesting in real life.”

“You played _Supremacy_?” Aragorn asked, surprised enough to interrupt his own conversation with Gimli. Pippin didn't blame him – it was weird imagining Merry playing a game like that.

“Research,” his friend said, as if that explained anything. When the older boy continued to give him a blank look, he continued. “I joined a roleplaying group that planned to do a live action anime scenario,” he explained. “My character was a martial artist, so I played _Supremacy_ to study up. I'm not crazy about playing games uninformed.”

That was an understatement if Pippin had ever heard one. Merry _hated_ not knowing things. About any subject. That past fall, he had researched the social histories of every girl in the homecoming court so that he could make an “informed decision” when voting for queen.

“Did it help?” Aragorn asked.

“Nope. They all bailed on the game. After I wasted sixty hours playing _Supremacy_ , no less.”

“Sixty hours!” Boromir blurted it out while twisting Pippin's arm in a way that didn't exactly hurt, but felt like it could hurt really badly really soon.

“Three hours a night for about three weeks,” Merry explained lightly. “I didn't let it cut into my WoW time, or anything.”

Pippin almost giggled as the older guys let that soak in. They had no idea what they were dealing with when it came to Merry Brandybuck. He never did schoolwork at home; he almost didn't sleep. In middle school he'd once spent nineteen straight hours online in a fantasy battle campaign with adult players who never did figure out he was only twelve years old. He even assisted in killing a significant boss – one that had been considered unbeatable until Merry and some woman took him down.

Gaming was fun, but Pippin wasn't like Merry. He liked real-life. Sometimes he wasn't sure whether or not Merry was even fully aware that this world wasn't just another scenario to be played. Pippin liked history. He liked watching people, trying to figure out how their brains worked by seeing what they did and how they reacted to things. Boromir, for example, was fascinating. Any time his thoughts took him somewhere he wasn't happy about, he'd find some physical way to distract himself – whether it was flexing that hand-grippy-thing or twisting Pippin's arms around his back into something he called a basic triangle. He wondered if maybe Boromir's body reacted really well to endorphins or something.

This Jiu Jitsu stuff was pretty cool. After a while, Boromir took on the role of a coach, talking him and Merry through the moves while they wrestled. Pippin was a bit smaller, but he was quicker, so he was able to overpower Merry just about as much as Merry could him.

But this time, Pippin was pinned on his back; Merry had his arms twisted in an unnatural way that made him afraid to try moving them. He kicked with his feet, but they couldn't find Merry's body. It was dawning on him that he had no choice but to tap out, when Legolas's voice cut through. “I could show you how to break that hold,” he said easily.

For a second, Pippin was sure he'd misunderstood. Maybe Legolas was talking to someone else? Or on the phone? Surely he wasn't offering advice on grappling. No offense to him, but he was far too pretty to know anything about a sport that habitually inflicted bruises. Skinny, too.

“Seriously,” he said, crouching down so that Pippin could see his face. “Let me show you. Boromir? Could you replicate that hold?”

“Sure I can. But I doubt you'll be able to get out of it.” Boromir flexed his muscles, apparently pretending it was for warm-up rather than show.

Legolas grinned. “If you say so,” he said. “Let's make some more room.” Together they pushed the tables even farther back, clearing at least a twelve foot square of flecked blue library carpet.

Merry and Pippin disengaged, untangling limbs in such a way that didn't help Pippin figure out at all just how he'd been pinned. At the same time, Boromir grabbed Legolas and twisted him down to the ground. Pippin recognized the position of the blond's arms – it was definitely the same submission hold.

“Okay, watch this,” Legolas said, his voice soft and completely unstrained. He blew a lock of hair out of his face and smirked.

And then he did something superhuman. Pippin didn't see how, exactly, but in the blink of an eye, Boromir lay on the floor behind a crouching Legolas, gasping softly as the blond smugly tucked his hair behind one ear.

“What was that?” Merry breathed, his eyes wide.

Boromir chuckled and propped himself up on one elbow. “That was judo,” he said, his voice somehow proud, as though he weren't the one who had been laid flat.

Pippin and Merry weren't the only ones impressed. Frodo and Sam were watching from Frodo's table, Sam awed like he'd seen a miracle. Aragorn leaned back in his chair, amused, and Gimli simply stared, his sketchbook sliding off his lap and his pencil dangling loose in his fingers.

“Show us again!” Pippin cried.

“But go slower this time,” Merry chimed in.

Boromir sat up, rubbing his shoulder. “That was awesome,” he told Legolas. “Why on earth have you never played on any of our teams? The judo club could've won a championship with you alone.”

Legolas shrugged. “It's something I do outside of school,” he said. “I used to compete, but I got bored.”

Bored of being able to do something like that? Pippin couldn't imagine. “Were you bored of winning all the time?” he asked.

“I didn't win all the time,” the senior told him, grinning. “It's just – there were other things I realized I'd rather be doing.” He darted a glance toward Aragorn. Or Gimli. Pippin couldn't tell.

“Still,” Boromir persisted. “Your school really needed you. The past few years have been pretty bad for martial arts and wrestling.” Pippin wasn't sure what constituted a bad year for wrestling, since Boromir had made it beyond the state championship. None of the rest of the team was any good, he supposed. Boromir seemed to be a team-player who liked everyone to succeed.

If Legolas had been on the team, Pippin would bet that the two of them could have made it into something amazing. A frown crossed Boromir's face, but then he shrugged as if to say “what's done is done.”

“Can you show us more?” Merry had pulled out a notebook.

“Only if Boromir is willing to help me,” Legolas said, looked skeptically at Boromir.

Pippin wasn't surprised when the athlete smiled. “I wouldn't mind learning a bit myself,” he said happily.

For the next hour or so, that's how they busied themselves, forgetting entirely about Mr. Gandalf and the possibility that he – or some other teacher – might come in at any moment. At first Legolas and Boromir demonstrated while Pippin watched and Merry took notes. But soon enough, the older boys coaxed the younger into participating, and the four of them tussled on the ground like puppies. Or at least, that's what Pippin imagined they looked like to the others.

“It's almost lunch time,” Frodo called at last. He and Sam had been hunched over a notebook – working out some kind of devious plan, it looked like – for a while, but Frodo wasn't one to lose track of time. “You might want to push the tables back in case Mr. Gandalf returns.”

The mention of lunch made Pippin's stomach growl. He'd managed not to eat all of his food early that time, but all the extra activity made him hungrier than ever. It was like his stomach was trying to digest itself. He thought of what he had left in his lunch bag – two apples, two ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, a Snickers bar, and one of those little jug juice boxes. Barely enough to make a dent. He glanced at Boromir's bag, at the same time telling himself that he was not – absolutely not – going to take advantage of Boromir's generosity and raid his stash of protein bars again. Sam then? Sam carried just about everything in the world in his pack. Maybe he'd have an extra cookie or two?

They had just gotten the tables back in order when the library door opened. Mr. Gandalf came in, looking, Pippin thought, a bit absentminded. And a little proud of himself for remembering to come back, he guessed.

“Hello, boys,” Gandalf said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It looks like it's just about time to eat. You can move around if you want – I imagine you're pretty stiff from sitting still all day.” Pippin couldn't tell if he was teasing them or being serious. It looked like no one else was sure, either. Only Legolas managed not to react – his eyes were downcast, his fingers flying over his phone beneath the table.

The food didn't last very long. The others were eating and talking, pretending that they hadn't been chattering away all morning. Frodo and Sam were still separate from the rest, sharing their meals – a huge helping of eggplant lasagna from Sam and various fruits and cheeses from Frodo – while whispering with their heads close together. Legolas washed Twinkies down with Yoo-hoo as he and Boromir – a huge sandwich and protein bars, of course – discussed judo and other martial arts.

Gimli also had a sandwich, and he kept to himself, taking bites absently between long stretches of drawing. Aragorn had abandoned his own table when Sam came over, taking the seat next to Merry. They shared their lunches like Frodo and Sam, both reaching into Merry's bag of Doritos as they discussed some video game. Pippin joined them, grabbing a few chips as he did.

“I was in the bell tower last night and I got invaded – which is pretty normal, I guess. But this guy was a total douche. He killed me really fast and then did one of those taunting gestures at me. Sent me a message, too, telling me to go back to Animal Crossing.”

“What was his username?” Aragorn asked, his eyebrows furrowed. “I got that same message once.”

“NecromancerGorthaur.” Merry said, scowling. Pippin knew that he never forgot a username – particularly if someone was nasty. Or had a really hot avatar.

Aragorn swore. “That's Sauron's online name.”

“You sure?” Pippin asked with his mouth full.

“Oh yeah.” He reached for another chip, but the bag was empty.

“God, I hate that dude,” Merry said with a scowl. “It's like he's always on the same server as me, and he's constantly doing stuff like that.”

“You've gotta beat him in the election,” Pippin said. “And I'll help.”

The two gamers continued their discussion, and Pippin chimed in when he could. Mainly, though, he was just hungry.

^^^^

_As of noon today, you've gone five whole days without trying to talk to him. Great job! Wanna celebrate at the Caves? It's time you got over him by getting under someone else! :P_

Legolas read Tauriel's text a second time and tapped the reply button. He answered swiftly – _Sounds like fun! Xxoo_ – as he crossed the room to sit at his usual table again for the afternoon.

It didn't sound at all fun, but Legolas was trying to keep busy. Distraction was the key to sanity, he'd decided, and if Tauriel wanted him to go out and make bedroom eyes at tipsy drag queens, he figured it was as good a plan as any. Besides, what else did he have to do?

Gimli was still sketching, his head lowered over the paper as usual so as to block the view. His soda can was empty and crumpled beside him. Legolas watched him, wondering what he was working on with such tenacious focus. He knew Gimli wouldn't show him, but he half-hoped that he'd lift his auburn head just enough for Legolas to steal a peek.

The bell rang; Legolas jumped.

Another text. Legolas held his phone under the table, just in case Gandalf was looking.

_I was kidding. You're not ready to get back on that horse yet. If you wanna go out, we could go to that Bruce Lee marathon in Osgiliath. <3_

He stared at the screen. Of course she was teasing. Tauriel was his voice of reason in this whole mess – no way would she suggest a random hookup at a club. In fact, she'd kept him from exactly that when he was at his most desolate. He felt like an idiot. Rather than write back, he scrolled through his messages. He told himself that he wasn't looking for anything in particular, that he was just killing time, but his fingers stopped when he reached it.

_Can we talk?_

It had popped into his inbox that morning. Only a few short hours ago, Glorfindel had been thinking of him. Wanting to talk to him. And maybe he still wanted to. Maybe he was waiting for Legolas to respond. The idea made his breath catch. 

No. No. No.

It was just like the guy to suddenly text when he was beginning to feel, well, not happy, but something a lot closer to it. Legolas pressed _delete_.

But when the are-you-sure prompt flashed onto the screen, he suddenly wasn't. He slid his phone into his pocket.

Tauriel. She was his life saver. All week, she'd been there to cheer him and remind him that Glorfindel didn't deserve him after everything that had happened in Lórien. He should probably go with her to Osgiliath. It would definitely take his mind off of – things. And his dad couldn't really say no – though Legolas was technically still grounded, he had found out that his dad hadn't even noticed he was gone until the school called him at work after the second skipped day. That gave him some serious leverage.

“But we can't!” The frantic whisper came from the other side of the room. Merry and Pippin huddled together, both looking upset. “If we get caught straight out of detention, they'll suspend us for sure!”

“Merry, I _have_ to have something else!” Legolas looked at Pippin, who had the pained expression of someone literally starving. It was the expression he imagined a heroin addict would have while begging his recovery coach for one last hit.

Gimli looked up from his sketchbook, then turned to Legolas, one eyebrow raised.

“What do—?” Gimli shook his head abruptly, so Legolas closed his mouth. He watched as Gimli turned to the next page of his sketchbook and hurriedly jotted down a note.

_Don't say anything. They can hear you._

Ominous. Legolas said nothing, but his expression apparently was enough to ask the question on his mind.

_Merry and Pippin. Just like you can hear them_ , he scrawled. _Something about these seats. And theirs._

Of course. Legolas glanced up at the domed ceiling. He'd witnessed a similar phenomenon while stargazing with his family – the observatory dome had provided hours of entertainment for him and his cousins. _It's a whispering gallery_ , he wrote, his writing looking small and uptight next to Gimli's open lettering.

_Whatever it's called, don't talk._

There was a knock at the door and before Mr. Gandalf could react, it opened. At first, Legolas was startled. A massive hulk of a man ducked through the doorway, and the blond was taken aback by his size alone. He wore a dirty red-orange fireman's coat and the biggest pair of boots Legolas had ever seen. “Fire Marshal D. Bane here,” the man said in a low growl of a voice. He was the sort of guy you didn't want to meet in a dark alley; his voice alone was terrifying, though he smiled as though trying to be friendly. He checked some paperwork on a clipboard in his huge hand. “I'm looking for a Mithrandir Gandalf.”

Mr. Gandalf stood. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No problem, sir,” said the fireman, his tone seeming just a bit more respectful, now that he knew he was talking to an old man. “I spoke with Mr. Elrond. We scheduled a safety walk through for this afternoon.”

Gandalf glanced over the proffered paperwork and then nodded shortly, his irritation clear enough to Legolas. “It looks like I'll be helping Mr. Bane today,” he told them with a sigh. He shook his head, and Legolas wondered if he was planning to have words with Mr. Elrond for not warning him of this appointment. He certainly would be, were he in Mr. Gandalf's shoes.

With a sigh, he turned to Aragorn. “Can I trust you in charge?” he asked.

Aragorn's eyes widened, but he nodded quickly, smiling. “Sure,” he said. 

Legolas bristled. He didn't particularly want to be in charge, but as the oldest, it was his right to be asked.

But Gandalf seemed aware of no such hierarchy. Looking at the rest of them, he said, “Feel free to quietly discuss Aragorn's campaign. Well, those of you who are assisting him, that is.”

Lightning quick, Gimli flipped to yet another page and quickly wrote _Elessar for President_ in shadowed block letters across the top. Legolas was amazed that his letters were so even and polished-looking, given how quickly he'd drawn them.

The fire marshal turned and lumbered out the door – Legolas could swear he had to both duck and turn to the side to get through. Gandalf followed, but suddenly turned back to look at them. “I'll be all around the school, and can come back at any minute. Consider carefully what you do with the time and freedom I'm giving you.” His gaze lingered longest on Pippin before he slipped out of the room.

“What was that about?” Aragorn asked as soon as the door was closed. Pippin and Merry exchanged a guilty glance.

“No clue,” Boromir replied, burying his head in his homework again. “Can't say I care, either,” he added. Legolas had a feeling he wasn't too happy about the election situation.

He turned to Gimli, who was sketching out a campaign poster. It looked really good, and Legolas wondered if this was something he had really thought about – Legolas had assumed that he had just seized his opportunity for a measure of freedom during their captivity. But he and Aragorn were friends – maybe he really wanted to help. He leaned forward over the table, about to ask.

“Wait for it,” Gimli murmured, his eyes never leaving the page.

Legolas sat back, confused. Wait for what?

“Just wait for it,” Gimli said again, smiling slyly.

“This is our chance!” Pippin exclaimed to Merry. This elicited a nod of gleaming satisfaction from Gimli, though Merry looked less pleased. “He's gone – if we don't do it now, we can't do it at all!”

“What are you two up to?” Frodo asked shrewdly, turning in his seat to look at them.

“He wants to return to the scene of the crime,” Merry said haughtily. “Never mind that Radagast has his eye on us now. There's no way we won't get caught.”

Pippin stood up. “Radagast isn't even here!” he cried. “I heard him say that he goes to visit his sister in Pelargir every Saturday!” He crossed his arms and looked down at his friend, clearly pleased with himself.

“Radagast?” Legolas asked Gimli.

“Custodian. Apparently he caught them out, the last time.”

Merry's eyes took on a glazed look – Legolas thought he must be working something out something in his head. He shook it slowly, but a smile began to creep over his face. “Pelargir, you say?”

Gimli gave a tiny grunt of satisfaction. “Looks like it's time for a heist,” he said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. He rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“You're not thinking of going with them!” Legolas hissed in a whisper.

Gimli grinned. “Sure am.”

“If you're going to do it, you're not going alone,” Merry told Pippin at the same time. “But we need the keys to the lock-box, if we're to get the other gate lifted.”

“You don't want to mess with the gates,” Sam said. “They're really loud, and there's no way Mr. Gandalf won't hear you. We don't even know where he is! Why not just stay here? Don't get yourselves into more trouble.”

“Or just avoid them altogether and go _through_ the attendance office.” Everyone looked at Aragorn, surprised. Legolas hadn't figured the future president of the student body would condone this. Aragorn continued, his voice hushed, but commanding, “Enter the door at this end; there's another door that opens onto the other corridor, beyond the second gate. You'll avoid the gates and the lobby. You just need someone to pick the lock to the door on this side.”

“And I suppose you'll do that?” Boromir challenged angrily.

Aragorn shook his head sadly. “I don't know how.”

“I do,” Gimli said. To absolutely no one's surprise.

Legolas had heard the same rumors as everyone else, but somehow this admission intrigued him. Lock-picking wasn't just something you knew – Gimli would have had to study it. Practice it. Legolas found he liked the idea of Gimli pursuing something like that. “Do you have the right tools?” he asked, forgetting his own disapproval.

Gimli pulled a paperclip from his pocket. “I should be able to do it with this,” he said, straightening it out. “Most of the interior locks in the building are cheap.”

“So we'll sneak out with Gimli and he'll pick the lock,” Merry decided. “Then we can slip through to the other side and go to the cafeteria.”

Sam frowned. “They're not even going to have food. It's Saturday.”

Legolas knew better, though. Minas Tirith High School's business classes ran a store at lunch time. They sold everything from cakes and candies to yogurt and trail mix. There probably wasn't fresh fruit in the store over the weekend, but there would be plenty of other things that a resourceful, hungry thief could take.

“You'll need a look-out,” he said, surprising himself just a bit. “I'll go with you.”

Pippin shook his head. “We're really good at not being noticed,” he said.

“But that's in a school full of kids,” Aragorn pointed out.

Merry nodded. “Okay, it'll be Pip and me and Gimli and Legolas. We need a bag.” He made a grab for Sam's. “Yours is the biggest,” he insisted, trying to tug it out of his friend's grip.

“Use your own!” Sam growled, and with a terrific yank he wrenched it completely out of Merry's hands. Random things fell out – the expected notebooks and pens, but also a deck of cards, a water bottle half filled with what looked to be Kool-Aid, a pair of socks, a screwdriver, and a whole host of other items. Merry picked up a small garden spade and looked at it incredulously. 

“It's for horticulture club!” Sam cried, snatching it back.

Huh. “We have a horticulture club?” Legolas asked. Funny how he'd been there four years and he still didn't know everything.

Gimli smirked.

Merry huffed at Sam and dumped all of his gaming books out of his own backpack. They slid in an avalanche across the surface of the table. Legolas wondered what was with these kids that they carried so much heavy stuff around with them.

“Are you all sure you want to do this?” Aragorn asked seriously, standing up. “The consequences are pretty steep if you get caught. And Sam's right – Mr. Gandalf could be anywhere.”

Pippin nodded. Merry nodded, though with less enthusiasm. Legolas was game – it had been kind of a while since he'd had this kind of fun. Gimli laughed his answer, as though there had been any question about him.

Sam looked worried. He chewed his bottom lip and looked anxiously at Frodo. Legolas was surprised to see that Frodo looked worse. Positively green. But there was nothing for them to worry about – they'd be safe in the library, free from blame if anyone got caught.

“Then I'm coming with you. Let's go.” Aragorn crossed the library with a purposeful stride.

“One does not simply walk out of detention!” Boromir protested. But his comment fell on deaf ears, as they all watched Aragorn open the door and step out. 

“Come on,” Legolas said, following. Gimli was behind him, and Merry and Pippin rushed to catch up.

The hallway felt strange. Forbidden. Sunlight filtered through the windows at the far end, but mostly it was dim and shadowy out there. As a group, they cautiously left the library alcove and crept toward the main lobby.

“I'll stay here.” Aragorn stopped at the boys' bathroom. “If Gandalf comes this way, I'll tell him you're in here. And if I see him, I'll send a signal.”

“Hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a screech owl?” Merry asked.

“Yeah,” Legolas replied sarcastically. “That makes a lot of sense in a suburban high school.” He held his hand out and Aragorn dropped his cell phone into his palm. It took only seconds for Legolas to program his number into it. “Keep it on vibrate,” he suggested. “Let's go.”

The hardest part was getting past the offices. They had no idea if anyone was in there. The door to the guidance office was propped open, and they could see the door to Gandalf's private office open beyond that. It was empty. That was both a comfort and a concern. Gimli stopped them all before they passed, and, using hand signals, indicated that they had to go the next twenty feet one-by-one, as quickly and silently as possible.

Gimli went first, then Merry. Pippin followed on surprisingly silent feet, leaving Legolas to bring up the rear. By the time he caught up with the others, Gimli was crouched in front of the door to the attendance office, wriggling his paperclip in the lock, his face screwed up in concentration. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead and he soundlessly whispered a curse, but then, a moment later, there was an audible _click_ and Gimli twisted the doorknob.

Legolas ushered the underclassmen into the attendance office. “We need to prop this door,” Merry whispered as he silently opened the second door. “Find something small enough that it won't be noticed.”

As Legolas and Pippin glanced helplessly around the office, Gimli grabbed a piece of paper and some tape. He folded the paper twice and taped it over the latch on the side of the door. It kept the lock from catching and was virtually invisible.

The second hallway – the one leading to the gym and cafeteria – was clear. All the lights were out, and Legolas had the feeling that no one at all was in that wing. Pippin took the lead out the door, and darted down the dark hall. Legolas was once again surprised at how quietly he stepped, even in a hurry.

Merry glanced at Legolas and Gimli. “One of you should stay here,” he mused softly, “as a second lookout.”

The two looked at each other. “Not me,” they both whispered at once.

Gimli stifled a laugh. “Guess we'll have to count on Aragorn,” he said.

For a moment it looked like Merry might argue, but was distracted by Pippin, waving at them from the door to the cafeteria. He shrugged and heaved a small sigh. “Do as you like,” he conceded. And then he, too, was off, darting toward his friend with equally silent footsteps.

Gimli and Legolas walked more slowly.

“I didn't know you could do that,” Gimli said in a low voice.

“Do what?” So far, Legolas had done precious little on this adventure.

“With Boromir. The judo. It was kind of amazing.”

Legolas felt his face flush. Gimli Glóinsson was giving him a complement? “Well, the way you picked that lock was kind of amazing, too. So I guess we're even.” He watched the ceiling as they walked, feeling strangely shy.

Gimli looked up at him sharply. “Didn't know it was a competition.”

Legolas suddenly wanted to laugh, even though nothing was particularly funny. Not to mention that laughing right then would probably get them expelled. “With me, Gimli,” he said instead, looking the other boy straight in the eye, “everything's a competition.” Before Gimli could say another word, Legolas broke into a quiet run, pretending that he was just eager to see what Pippin and Merry were up to.

Lords above, they were bickering.

“You don't even like Sweet Tarts, Pip,” Merry was saying as Legolas reached the door.

Pippin shrugged. “I don't _dislike_ them,” he argued, throwing a couple packages into the bag. “Sugar's sugar, right?”

“I just think, if we're risking our necks here, it should be for something we really want,” Merry tried to reason.

“I'm hungry,” Pippin said, a bit too loud, if Legolas was to be any judge. “I really want everything!”

“You can't take _everything_ ,” Merry pointed out. “They'll know we were the only ones in the building over the weekend.”

Pippin made his way through the chips, grabbing one of each kind. Then he moved on to the candy bars.

“Take something with protein,” Gimli said from the doorway, leaning casually as though this were a regular shopping experience rather than larceny. “It'll fill you up.”

Pippin grabbed a handful of beef jerky sticks and thrust them into Merry's backpack. “Okay, I think I'm good. Let's go.” He and Merry left the cafeteria swiftly and almost soundlessly – Pippin was happily crunching on some granola.

Legolas glanced at Gimli, who'd walked over to cooler. He grabbed a bottle of Yoo-hoo and tossed it to Legolas, then got a can of grape Fanta for himself. Pausing by the counter, he fished in his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. Kind of a huge wad. “This should cover it,” he murmured, smoothing them out and sliding them halfway under the cash register.

“What was that about?” Legolas asked as they crept down the hallway together. “Can our resident badass be a big softie?”

“I never claimed to be a badass,” Gimli answered, scowling. Legolas didn't know which adjective insulted him. “And you didn't even know who I was before last week, so don't pretend to know me.”

That was unexpectedly harsh; Legolas stopped short. Well ahead of them, Pippin and Merry were creeping back into the attendance office. “I knew _of_ you,” he said, frowning slightly. “You're kind of infamous in this school.”

Gimli halted as well and looked at him squarely. “You, too.” Any trace of annoyance was gone from his expression. “So what happened in Lórien that's got you so upset?”

Legolas shrugged. He eyed the trophy case instead of returning Gimli's gaze. “You know how it goes,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Date an older guy, go surprise him at his dorm. The usual.”

Find him in bed with that Haldir fellow he'd introduced you to at a New Year's party four months ago. End up so devastated that you spend two days aimlessly driving, sleeping in your car and eating gas-station food. But Legolas wouldn't tell Gimli all that. He'd barely been able to say it out loud to Tauriel.

“The usual?” Gimli asked, an eyebrow arching.

Legolas shrugged again, his eyes trained on a huge trophy, but not really seeing it. There wasn't much else he could reveal without risking tears. This mini-adventure had managed to get his mind off of the text still sitting heavy in his phone. _Can we talk?_ The last thing he'd expected during a snack food heist was a discussion about Glorfindel.

“Seems messed up, that the usual thing for you involves being miserable.” Gimli started walking again, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Then he turned suddenly, walking backward a few steps as he spoke. “Sounds to me like you deserve a lot better.”

^^^^

The waiting and wondering was making Sam sick. He tried to concentrate on his geometry homework, but his gaze kept straying to the door. He glanced at the clock. They'd been gone almost ten minutes – he wondered how long it took to sneak into the cafeteria and sneak back.

“I wish they hadn't done it,” he told Frodo miserably.

“Me too, Sam,” Frodo agreed.

Sam liked Merry a lot, and Pippin, too, but he found that they were a bit harder to deal with when it was the two of them together. It had taken him nearly the whole week to come to terms with the fact that two of his friends had been responsible for stealing hundreds of dollars' worth of food – every penny of which their parents had to pay back, Sam had heard. The fact that they were at it again, before the debt was paid and the detentions even finished, was a bit beyond his reckoning. It hadn't really surprised him when Gimli offered to go with them, though Legolas's willingness to participate had been unexpected. But it was Aragorn that really shocked him – it wasn't fitting behavior for a student council president, that was for sure.

“I think they were trying to keep them out of trouble,” Frodo said, somehow reading the turn of Sam's thoughts. “Gimli and Aragorn. Legolas too, even. I think they wanted to make sure that Pip and Merry didn't get caught.”

Sam couldn't tell if he really believed that, or if Frodo was merely trying to make himself feel better about it. He was taking this whole scheme pretty hard – anything to do with stealing these days tended to make him go quiet and pale.

It was all the fault of that stupid ring. Frodo had confessed everything last week, showing him the plain gold band that had caused the whole mess. It looked pretty ordinary to Sam, but he didn't always understand some of the things that were exciting to his friends. He wished Frodo would throw it away or at least leave it at home, instead of carrying it around with him, the constant reminder making him sick.

Even now, he fiddled with it. Frodo was bent over his textbook, reading his assignment, but his fingers were busy toying with that ring, slipping it over his knuckles and twisting it around in his palm. The only thing he didn't do was put it down. And when Boromir spoke, his hand curled protectively around it.

“It's too quiet in here,” the upperclassman complained. Sam had to agree. The only sound in the library was the squeaking of his hand grip as he exercised.

Sam couldn't think of anything to say to that, and Frodo was once more engrossed in his schoolwork, so a few more minutes stretched by, the silence broken only by the rhythmic _squeak_ , pause, _squeak_ , pause of Boromir's hand.

“That was so much cooler than questing during a school day!” Merry's voice broke the silence as he shoved the door open, a bulging backpack slung over one shoulder. Pippin followed close at his heels, grinning as he chewed. “You guys should've come with us!” Merry continued. “It was awesome, and we brought you treats!” He tossed the bag onto the table next to Boromir and yanked at the zipper.

“No thanks.” Sam wanted no part in this. Not even the spoils of success. “I don't want to eat stolen food.”

Pippin pouted, but a second later he popped the last bite of his granola bar into his mouth and smiled again. “So good,” he purred, his mouth full.

“It's not stealing,” Merry insisted, perching on the back of a chair. “We go to public school, right? That means that the city pays for everything – books, chairs, food – right?”

Frodo nodded. He looked wary, but curious.

“And the good citizens of Minas Tirith pay the city, by way of taxes. So you see,” and he took a huge bite out of a Suzy Q as if to emphasize his point, “all of this food belongs to all of us, as citizens of Minas Tirith. My parents alone have paid enough in taxes this year to cover this tiny sample a dozen times over. Pip's folks paid even more! I say it's ours fair and square.”

He looked proud of himself. He crossed his arms and looked at the others, waiting for an argument. Frodo only shrugged and went back to his books. “Whatever you say,” Boromir grumbled, reaching for a Slim Jim as Pippin upended the backpack and dumped its considerable contents onto the table.

Sam wasn't so sure, but before he could work out a way to counter his friend, the library door opened again. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli walked into the room. They glanced at the pile of food on the table, then at each other, looking to Sam like a trio of successful hunters, assessing their bounty.

“It looks like we have a lot of food to get rid of before Gandalf comes back,” Aragorn said, a twinkle in his eye. Gimli and Legolas exchanged another glance, and Sam was pleasantly surprised to see that, for the first time since detentions began, the smile on the older boy's face reached his eyes.

The food was devoured in short order. Even Frodo helped himself to a little bag of M&Ms. Sam ate a few when his friend offered, but only, he reasoned, because the lasagna he'd had for lunch had left a spicy taste in his mouth, and everyone knew that chocolate was good for cleansing the palate.

He wondered what Rose Cotton would think of him now, sitting in detention and eating pilfered snacks. He kind of thought she wouldn't like it much at all. He'd never met as straightforward and honest a girl as Rosie, and he thought she was wonderful. They'd met that fall at a bonfire, and even though she was a freshman, they had biology class together. Plus, she was in the horticulture club with him. That girl had a way with sunflowers that made even the teacher green.

The fact that she had tumbling curls and a freckle-sprinkled nose was hardly part of why he liked her, though he did find himself hoping he'd be twining those same curls around his fingers one day. And her eyes – bright and so, so clever – they flashed when she was happy, same as when she was mad.

Sam had kind of hoped she'd be proud of him for defending Frodo last week. Kind of hoped she'd tell him he was brave or quick-thinking or even just a good friend. But she hadn't mentioned the fight at all, save for agreeing to transplant all of the herbs he'd been growing, since he'd miss so many weeks of club activities.

And now he was tangled up in something else. Not anything that would land him in trouble again, he hoped, but something just the same. Something he wouldn't be involved in at all, if it were up to him.

Frodo told him about it that morning. He'd asked for his advice, though Sam figured that Frodo would know better than him about most anything that didn't grow in the earth. It seemed that Sauron, the guy who was running against Aragorn for student body president – against Boromir, too, Sam realized – was running some kind of cheating ring. He'd approached Frodo the year before, offering to pay him cash for writing papers for various different assignments.

“I told him no, flat out,” Frodo had told him that morning, “and at first I thought that was that, but a couple of days later he tried again, offering more money.” And when it was clear that money wasn't going to work, Sauron started using threats. “He didn't have anything to hold over me, though,” Frodo had said, and Sam was grateful that his best friend was too good a guy to have dark secrets, “so he said he'd make things hard for Bilbo instead.”

Frodo loved his uncle, who had raised him since his parents drowned when he was little. But Sam knew that raising a kid all alone hadn't been easy on the guy. He worked a lot, sometimes doing work with businesses that didn't always have the most savory reputations. Frodo always insisted that his uncle's work was on the level, but it seemed that Sauron thought otherwise. At least enough for threats.

“I told him that I still wouldn't do the work, but worrying about Bilbo made me agree not to tell anyone about what Sauron was up to,” Frodo had confessed while the others were playing wrestling games before lunch.

“So why now?” Sam had asked him. He wondered if he counted as anyone. Maybe if Frodo changed his mind, if he didn't tell Mr. Gandalf after all, then maybe Sauron would never know.

Frodo glanced across the room, where Aragorn and Gimli watched the others grappling. “Aragorn,” he said simply. “It's a noble cause.” Sam's friend went silent for a long moment. “Besides, it's not a secret I've been proud of keeping.”

A few hours later, Sam was still thinking about that. He never thought about secrets being like that, like burdens that weigh someone down until they leave lasting damage. And now Frodo had two – first Sauron, and now the ring. He wondered what he could possibly do to help him with either of them.

He glanced out the window, where the cherry trees were bursting with pink blossoms. It was such a waste, spending his Saturdays inside during planting season. He looked around the room, where the others were chatting and laughing. Frodo was leaning across the empty space between his seat and Gimli's, watching what seemed to be a cat video on Legolas's phone. Aragorn and Merry were deep in a conversation that Sam hoped was about video games – otherwise the references to upgrading weaponry and killing would be disturbing. Even Boromir had been coaxed out of his disapproval when Pippin had to use both hands to budge his hand grip.

Sam smiled wistfully at them all. He supposed it wasn't a bad punishment, hanging out with friends for a few hours every week. He noticed that Frodo's scarf had been abandoned on the table, the green-yellow smudges of bruised skin on his throat visible only if you knew to look for them.

Gandalf returned then, looking crotchety and cranky. Apparently MTHS hadn't done too well with Fire Marshal Bane, Sam thought. And was he imagining it, or did the guidance counselor come back smelling vaguely of smoke and ash? “I hope you've all made good use of your time,” he said dismissively. From the corner of his eye, Sam noticed Aragorn tossing his arm over the remains of his and Merry's ill-gotten feast.

“Rather than wait the extra twenty minutes, I think I'll let you go early. I have things I must do, and you boys haven't given me a bit of trouble all day.”

Gimli choked, turning a bark of laughter into a coughing fit. Some of the others twittered nervously.

Sam, for one, wasn't laughing. There was something in Gandalf's face that made him uneasy, like maybe he was mocking them with his praise. Sam wondered for a moment if he knew everything. But the others gathered their things cheerfully enough, and when Frodo slung his arm around Sam's shoulders, offering him a ride home, he forgot to care about what Mr. Gandalf might or might not know.

Rosie lived on one of the roads that Bilbo usually took on the way home. It was a pretty day – maybe he'd see her working in her garden. He grabbed his pack and slung it onto his back. “Sure,” he said to his friend. “Let's go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _“Wherever thou goest, my thought goes with thee” ~ Éomer refrains from making a horn o' Gondor joke ~ she's just not that into you ~ U mad, bro? ~ Clothes Don't Shrink at the Entwash! ~ renewed shall be the blade that was broken ~ that apology was probably Merry's idea, you know_  
> 

It had been a good week. Gimli didn't even mind that it was pouring down rain outside. He was spending the day in detention, after all; what did he care if the rest of the world's Saturday plans were ruined? He strode into the library and claimed his usual spot, tossing his bag to the floor next to his chair. He glanced around. The usual crew again, it seemed, though seating arrangements had shifted a bit since that first week. Sam and Frodo sat together now – already they were side-by-side, a notebook open between them. Aragorn and Boromir shared a table this week, and Merry and Pippin were, predictably, already whispering across their own table. Legolas threw his jacket over his usual chair and sat down. Gimli tossed him a grin.

It had been a _very_ good week. 

“I heard you won that art contest.” Legolas's voice was low enough that it didn't draw Elrond's attention. Apparently Gandalf was gone for good – at the very least, Elrond was back. Yay.

A pleased flush warmed Gimli's skin. “Yep,” he said proudly. “And that puts me in the finalists' pool for this year's Celebrimbor-Narvi grant.” A grant like that could change his life. 

The way things stood now, his father was pressuring him to go to some business school so that, when he came to work in the family business – a given, as far as his dad was concerned – he'd have a shot at becoming Dáin Ironfoot's protege and successor. Gimli had tried to explain that the last thing he wanted was to become CEO of a corporation that didn't make anything but money. But his father barely heard him.

With the grant, he could pay for art school himself. Or even better, he could use the money to set up a studio in the city and skip out on school altogether. Ms. Galadriel thought he was good enough already. “Learning art is a discipline,” she'd told him early that year. “Some artists need the structure and community of school, but others – like you, Gimli – do just as well on your own.”

Being a finalist meant submitting a new piece, and Ms. Galadriel had offered to stay after school with him while he finished the one he'd been working on since before spring break. It was a sculpture – not chiseled from marble or shaped in clay, but made of scrap metal and wire: welded and soldered and brushed with toxic chemicals for color and oxidation. 

“They almost always choose a senior,” she'd warned him earlier that week. “In the past decade there hasn't been a single winner who wasn't in the graduating class.” Then she looked at him for a long moment, a secret kind of smile on her lips. “But if any one can break with tradition, Gimli Glóinsson, it will be you.”

They worked in the dim cavern of the wood and metal shop each afternoon until the sculpture was basically finished, both of them in heavy aprons and work gloves, hair twisted up and goggles over their eyes. And even like that, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. She laughed a lot while they worked alone together, somehow happier than he'd ever seen her. Her eyes sparkled. Her smile glowed.

And in spite of himself, he hoped.

He was finally eighteen. And she was – he didn't know, but she couldn't be so much older. He knew it was forbidden: he was her student, only a junior no less, but he wouldn't be in school forever. Though she'd never said or done anything inappropriate, it was clear she favored him. She talked with him, encouraged him. She touched his shoulder, his hair, guided his hand as she demonstrated a brushstroke. He'd spent almost three years reminding himself that it was nothing, but somehow – somehow that week she was different. 

It seemed to him that everything was different.

“Mr. Gandalf told me that he has given many of you some kind of project to work on,” Mr. Elrond's voice broke through Gimli's thoughts. “Due to this – this decision of his – I will permit you some moving around and quiet discussion. If it ever seems to me that you are abusing this privilege, however, we will go back to my way of doing things.”

The door opened slowly and a blond head peeked into the library.

“It seems we have a late-comer.” Elrond said sharply. “Éomer Éadig, it would do you well to learn how to read a clock.”

Éomer had a sheepish expression on his face and a backpack over one shoulder. “Sit wherever you'd like and get to work on something,” Elrond told him. “No sleeping.”

Éomer scanned the room, grinning when his eyes fell on Gimli. “If I've gotta be in detention, might as well go for the genuine experience,” he said out loud. “Glóinsson! Fancy meeting you here.” 

“And no talking!” Elrond barked as Éomer sauntered over to Gimli's table. “Unless you're involved in Mr. Gandalf's project?” Éomer shook his head. “I thought not.” The vice-principal was very clearly irritated. 

He wasn't the only one. Gimli didn't know Éomer that well, but he already knew enough to know he'd like to know him less. Still, he shifted his chair just a bit, making room for the newcomer.

“I'll be checking in on you periodically,” Elrond said over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “I expect better behavior than what got you here.” 

“He doesn't let up, does he?” Éomer asked as soon as the door closed behind Elrond. 

“Never.” Aragorn replied, rolling his eyes. 

“So why are you here, Éomer?” Boromir asked, frowning almost like a teacher himself. Gimli knew that the sophomore was on a couple of school sports teams – though you wouldn't know if from his green and gold letter man jacket from another school. 

“It's stupid really,” the sophomore replied, tilting his seat back on two legs. “I was in Mr. Théoden's class. It was hot, so I went to open the window. His stupid student teacher, Gríma, said that it was against the rules. Never mind that Théoden has never once said anything about the windows. So I did it anyway, and the slimy bastard threw me out of class.”

Gimli rolled his eyes. Surely there had to be something more to the story. He didn't know this Gríma, but Théoden was an especially cool teacher. He'd had a lot of fun in his class last year.

“Mr. Gríma isn't very friendly,” Merry piped up, shuffling a deck of Magic cards. “Théoden's public speaking class was my favorite, until he came along.” 

“Yeah,” Éomer said with a snort. “It's ridiculous. But it's only one detention, at least. I've heard 'round school that some of you guys are stuck here until the end of the year.”

“Just three more weeks,” Frodo corrected quietly. “Well, except Boromir. This is his last.”

“Lucky us, eh?” Éomer said, grinning at the upperclassman.

Boromir shrugged and turned to Aragorn to continue discussing some upcoming track meet. The others returned to their business as well, and Gimli, as always, pulled out his sketchbook. He was really focused on his sculpture right now, so his heart wasn't into the sketching, but he didn't have anything else to do, either.

“Whatcha working on?” Éomer asked, leaning toward him. Gimli glanced up, startled by his nosiness. People never bugged him about his art.

“He doesn't share it,” Legolas said coolly. 

Gimli threw a quick smile his way before leaning over his work. He glanced covertly at Boromir, trying to imitate the lines of his jaw on the page. He kept his head down as he sketched, soon oblivious to his surroundings, until he heard the door open and a sharp intake of breath from Merry Brandybuck. 

“Gimli?” Ms. Galadriel's voice – low and clear – pulled him completely from his work. She stood at the door, and the fluorescent light gave her hair a silver, ethereal sheen. She gestured for him to come over, which he did immediately, his sketchbook tucked under one arm.

“I'm going to be in the art room through the afternoon,” she told him in her quiet voice. “I just wanted to let you know in case you're free to put the finishing touches on your piece, once detention is over.”

She came to school specifically to work with him, he realized with a start. No, he scolded himself; she came in to work on her own things, and remembered that he would be there, too. But was one really any worse than the other? She wanted to spend time with him. That's what mattered here.

“I should be able to stop by,” he said gruffly, looking up into her eyes. She beamed radiantly at his reply, and he could swear his heart stopped beating. This week was killing him, but damn, what a way to go.

She murmured a quick goodbye and slipped back out into the hall.

“How can one woman be that lovely?” Merry asked in a sigh as Gimli returned to his seat. His eyes were glassy with puppy love, and Gimli thought it was kind of adorable. Galadriel was that incredible, after all. 

“No use mooning over her,” Éomer said, tossing his pencil into the air and catching it. “She's engaged to a guy in my neighborhood. Just announced it last weekend.”

^^^^

Aragorn knew about Gimli's crush. Anyone who knew Gimli and saw him with Ms. Galadriel knew; the guy couldn't hide it. So he wasn't surprised to see that his friend didn't take Éomer's news well. He completely shut down. He sat in his seat automatically, not drawing, not talking – he just rolled his pencil in his fingers and stared into the library stacks.

Legolas caught Aragorn's eye and grimaced. Éomer, meanwhile, was going on and on to Merry about Galadriel's fiancé, oblivious to Gimli altogether. Oblivious to Legolas's growing irritation.

“Just go away, will you?” Legolas finally snapped, glaring at the younger boy. Éomer shut his mouth and blinked, startled. Looking more than a little confused, he picked up his books and moved to Aragorn's and Boromir's table.

“Jeez, what's with that guy?” he asked quietly as he sat down.

Yes, this was a better fit, really, Aragorn thought. Éomer and Boromir could discuss the various sports they played while the others worked on the campaign or their homework. And he could work on that, too. 

Or go back to thinking about Arwen.

She'd returned from her mock UN summit the night before. As soon as her plane landed, he'd gotten a text. _Just landed. Bought my prom dress while I was in Minas Ithil._ Prom was only a few weeks away, and he was looking forward to it. Mr. Elrond had kept relatively quiet on the subject – meaning, he hadn't forbidden Arwen to go with him. _Can you come over tomorrow night?_ The second text had come moments after the first, and he discovered that looked forward to that even more. A week without seeing Arwen – without talking to her, kissing her – had been hell. 

Last night his mother had said no, that he was still grounded. She hadn't been thrilled with his detentions, but she liked Arwen, so he had reason to hope he could persuade her to let him go anyway. After all, she understood that Mr. Elrond had probably been a little stricter than needed with this particular punishment.

He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text: _Still not sure about tonite – still working on mom. Love you._

“She's a real looker, that Arwen chick.” Éomer was looking at his phone; the wallpaper was a selfie he'd taken with Arwen at her locker when they'd started dating. “Hottest girl in this school, easy.”

“Yeah.” He didn't like the way Éomer said it, but he also didn't want to call him out on it and create a ruckus in detention. That wouldn't win any points with Elrond; Aragorn doubted that he was the sort to understand defending a woman's honor.

“Some people,” Éomer glanced at Merry, “might think that Ms. Galadriel's as good as it gets, but she's not nearly as sexy as Arwen Undómiel.”

Merry looked up from his cards, a perplexed expression on his face. Aragorn glanced at Éomer curiously – was he trying to start something with Merry? Why? Legolas was watching Gimli, who, thankfully, didn't seem to be listening at all.

Meanwhile, Éomer wasn't finished. “I mean, maybe if you're into older women. But seriously, why, with hotties like Undómiel running around? Besides, she gave me a D last semester. She's a total witch.”

Aragorn hadn't realized that Gimli was paying attention. He also hadn't realized he could move so quickly. In a dark blur, Gimli crossed from one table to the other, and before Aragorn could see exactly what happened, Éomer was knocked to the floor, along with his chair.

Aragorn didn't doubt that more would have followed, if Legolas hadn't jumped up just as quickly. His own chair fell to the floor behind him as he lunged forward to restrain Gimli. “Not worth it,” he said through clenched teeth as he locked the younger boy's arms behind his back.

“What the hell was that for?” Éomer cried, trying to sit up. He angrily pushed his long hair out of his face.

“Don't you dare talk about her like that!” Gimli shouted, fighting angrily against Legolas's arms. “Let me go, Legolas,” he grunted.

“And then what are you gonna do?” Éomer taunted, standing up and kicking the chair away. His hands balled into fists, and Aragorn didn't doubt the rage on his face. “Shorty, I will come over there and kick your ass if you so much as look at me again!” And without even waiting for the provocation, he swung.

Aragorn jumped up to grab Éomer, but once again, Legolas was quicker. In one fluid movement, he dropped Gimli's arms and darted toward Éomer. Catching the punch, he spun around him quickly, twisting and locking the offending arm behind Éomer's back with one hand. The other reached around Éomer's shoulders, his forearm pressing a choke hold against the younger boy's throat. “If you lay even one finger on him,” he growled as he twisted the arm further, “I can make this feel like nothing.” His face was fierce, alarming. The pretty boy was gone, and the dangerous martial artist was back.

For a long moment the only sound in the library was the painful hissing of Éomer's breath. Even Gimli was frozen, seemingly forgetting his own anger at the sight of Legolas's.

“Let him go, Legolas,” Aragorn told him quietly. “You've made your point.”

For a moment it looked like Legolas had other plans, but a nod from Gimli made the tall blond exhale slowly. He released Éomer, who had the sense to stay quiet. Instead he picked up his chair, his expression surly. 

“How about sitting somewhere else?” Boromir suggested. His tone wasn't unkind, but it was clear that he would suffer no argument. “And stop running your mouth about Strider's girlfriend.” Aragorn had to stifle a smile – it was fun to see Boromir in full-on team captain mode.

Éomer glared at them both. “Fine,” he said, picking up his books again. “But I think it's really shitty that you're siding with those jerks,” he nodded his head toward Legolas and Gimli's table, “and a guy who dumped my sister just because someone hotter paid attention to him.”

Aragorn groaned. How many times did he have to explain that his – _whatever_ – with Éowyn had ended well before he'd begun dating Arwen? She'd had friends pass him notes and she'd called him kind of a lot, but he'd made it clear that he wasn't really interested. He'd liked Arwen forever, after all.

Éomer made his way over to Merry's and Pippin's table and plopped down in one of the free chairs.

“Do you play Magic the Gathering?” Merry asked. When Éomer nodded, he pulled another deck of cards from his bag. They began a quiet game, not talking much except to declare their attacks and spells.

Boromir's eyes met Aragorn's and he shrugged. “He's not always this much of a jerk,” he whispered. “I think he's having trouble adjusting to Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “He could start by getting rid of that Rohan Riders jacket.”

“Yeah,” Boromir said with a snort.

At the other table, Gimli was back to sketching and glowering, and Legolas texted on his phone. Aragorn's eyes moved curiously over to Frodo and Sam, who were both poring over the same notebook and making quick, deliberate marks. He didn't really know what they were up to, but Frodo had said he was working on something to help him become class president. Aragorn wondered if this furtive work was related to the election.

Pippin left his table suddenly, crossing over to the computers set up by the windows. 

“What're you doing, Pippin?” Aragorn asked. Pippin was fun, but he was the most likely to lead them all to trouble, now that Éomer wasn't slinging insults around.

“Looking something up online,” Pippin answered, but after a moment of clicking and angrily typing, he gave up. “I'm not connected.”

“That's because it's Saturday, and there's no need to be online when you're in detention,” a rich, deep voice called from the opposite side of the room. Mr. Saruman had entered the library when they weren't looking. And he wasn't alone.

Sauron was at his side, glaring at Aragorn and Boromir. 

“What brings you here on a Saturday?” Aragorn asked, not deliberately trying for sarcastic cheer, but hitting the mark just the same.

Mr. Saruman glared down his crooked nose at Aragorn. “Perhaps you should mind your own business, Mr. Elessar.”

Sauron stepped closer to Aragorn while Saruman logged into his computer and printed something off. “I'm working on a shop project,” he said. “And Mr. Saruman has some schematics that will help me.

“How's the campaign going, O'Gondor?” he asked, turning to Boromir. “I saw that a few more posters went up over the week. I suppose you're looking forward to the speeches we're giving next week? To the entire student body?” His smile was mean.

Boromir looked a little green. Aragorn knew that despite all of Boromir's confidence in any sporting event, he didn't care for public speaking at all and probably wouldn't fare well in comparison to a smooth talker like Sauron. 

In fact, Aragorn himself wasn't at all sure he could outshine Sauron. It was true that he had a good reputation for honesty and people liked him, but Sauron had a way of making everything look larger-than-life. He was all razzle-dazzle, but glitter had a way of winning out over substance in cases like this.

“And you,” he turned to Aragorn. “Nice work on the posters. It's good to know you've thrown your hat in.” Aragorn inwardly cringed. He'd forgotten about the posters.

“Here you are,” Saruman said, handing several sheets of paper to Sauron. Aragorn wondered what Sauron had over him, to make him show up on his day off just to print something out for him. 

“I guess I'll be seeing you around,” Sauron said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “May the best man win. Elessar. O'Gondor,” he mimed tipping his hat to his competition. 

Before he left with Saruman, he turned and leveled his gaze at Frodo. “Baggins.” The younger boy nodded, his eyes grim.

“What the hell was that?” Boromir asked no one in particular, his eyes wide, once the door was shut behind them.

Aragorn shrugged. He had no idea.

^^^^

Merry thought Éomer was okay. He'd said some mean things about Ms. Galadriel and he'd definitely been disrespectful about Aragorn's girlfriend, but generally, the guy wasn't bad. He was in a lot of Merry's classes, and though they never really talked much, he was usually a decent person. Smarter than he liked to let on, too. He and his twin sister Éowyn mostly kept to themselves, apart from sports stuff like football and volleyball. 

And then there was that whole thing between Éowyn and Aragorn last fall. But Merry figured that was mostly physical. He'd never heard her say much about him other than how sexy he was and what a great kisser he'd been. It seemed to Merry that she'd found someone else anyway – she'd been doodling hearts on her shoes yesterday in chemistry lab.

“You voting for anyone for student council president?” Merry asked him between rounds of Magic. 

Éomer made a face. “I don't know. Does it matter?”

Merry shrugged. “Kind of.” Frodo had told him a little about Sauron. About what he and Sam were working on. He wasn't supposed to talk about it, but he kind of felt he owed it to Aragorn – and to all of MTHS for that matter – to try to persuade anyone he could that a vote for Sauron was a vote for villainy. “We're all supporting Aragorn. Well, except Boromir. He's probably going to vote for himself.”

The blond smiled grimly. “I could vote for Boromir, I suppose,” he said.

Merry nodded. As long as it wasn't Sauron, he was cool with it. “He's a good guy,” he said, shuffling his deck. 

“But,” Éomer had a look on his face like he was dredging up a nearly-forgotten memory. “Didn't Sauron once say something about the internet? Wasn't he going to make it easier to get online or something?”

Merry had forgotten that. “I think you're right,” he said, glancing toward Aragorn, who was rather unproductively gazing at his cell phone. “Hey Aragorn,” he called, motioning the older guy over.

“What's up?” Aragorn asked, turning the last chair backwards and straddling it.

“You need campaign promises,” Merry told him bluntly. “You have a speech to give in less than two weeks, and you need to start putting up some posters.”

“Hey!” Pippin interjected. “I put up posters on Tuesday!”

“Defacing Sauron's doesn't count,” Merry told him shortly. Pippin had come to school early with a stack of homemade “Elessar” stickers, which he had used to cover Sauron's name on every one of his campaign posters. It was the kind of smart-ass thing that Merry genuinely admired, but he wasn't sure it was going to help Aragorn get elected.

The junior looked sheepish. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I guess I should stand for something. But what?”

“Sauron's promising internet,” Merry told him. “He's saying that he can arrange for full-time access here in the library.” The internet was kind of a hot-button issue at their school. Saruman controlled it with an iron fist. If a kid wanted to get online to work on a project, he had to first get written permission from his teacher, submit it to the librarian, schedule a computer session, and then, only then, could he check out the dozen or so approved websites. Even at that point, Saruman could revoke access on a whim. A lot of kids – like Legolas – were far more likely to risk sneaking online with their smart phones than to hassle with the school policies.

“That's kind of huge.” Aragorn grimaced.

Merry nodded. It would be tough to top.

“But Aragorn's nicer,” Pippin insisted. “And he's better-looking. Attractive people always do much better in politics.”

“If that's all I have going for me, I might as well concede to Boromir,” Aragorn said, shaking his head. “Girls go crazy for him.”

Merry swallowed a snicker. Girls loved Boromir because he was a challenge – he'd never seen anyone as blatantly uninterested as Boromir O'Gondor. The girls that wanted Aragorn, on the other hand, really _wanted_ him. The guy was oozing with sex appeal – in part, it seemed, because he didn't even know it. “You're dating Arwen Undómiel,” he mused out loud. “That will help, I think.”

“Seriously?” It didn't seem to sit well with him that his choice of girlfriend might influence voters.

“Sure,” Merry told him. “She's smart and nice and super-organized. People will assume the same about you since you're together.”

“Huhn.”

“We still don't have any issues for his platform,” Pippin reminded them. He popped an Oreo into his mouth before pushing the package into the middle of the table for everyone else. “What do you care about, Aragorn?”

Aragorn's guilty expression intrigued Merry. Was it just Arwen then? He'd hoped that he'd realize he was running for himself, rather than just to appease the girl's father.

“Last period lock-out for seniors?” he suggested hesitantly.

“Good luck with that,” Boromir snorted from the next table. “They've been trying that for years, and so far the superintendent hasn't even considered it!”

“What about letting sophomores drive to school?” Pippin suggested, glancing at Merry. Like him, about half of the sophomores were old enough to drive, but an upperclassmen-only rule about parking kept them on the buses.

“Not bad,” Merry encouraged, “but not enough to beat the world wide web.”

“Okay,” Pippin grinned. “How about fifteen-minute snack periods? We could have one around eleven and another close to two.”

They all laughed, and Pippin's delight turned into a mock scowl. “He might as well promise to end nuclear proliferation,” Merry chided.

“Now you're being ridiculous,” Boromir growled again. But before Merry could explain the finer points of hyperbole, the athlete continued. “I don't understand how anyone would consider throwing away a weapon like that.”

“A nuclear warhead?” Aragorn turned to him, aghast. “Maybe to save the world from radioactive fallout? To prevent a nuclear arms race? Disarmament is the only answer.”

Boromir snorted. “Whatever. A weapon like that is a gift. It should be kept – if not to be used, then to ensure your country's safety against enemies!”

They started to bicker full-on, then, and Merry shook his head. He pulled out his notebook and jotted down the only good idea they'd had so far: _sophomore driving privileges_. “Guys,” he broke in at last. “We still don't have a platform.”

“I think we should be able to open a fucking window without being slammed with a Saturday detention,” Éomer said.

“I say no more Saturday detentions at all!” Aragorn cried.

Boromir nodded, his contentious expression melting into to grin. “You might even get my vote if you can make that fly,” he said.

Pippin cocked his head. “In TV shows they usually promise to relax the dress code. Could we do that?” he asked.

Legolas chimed in from his seat. “I don't think we have a dress code, Pippin.”

“Oh.” Pippin looked disappointed.

“If we did, we'd definitely outlaw that Rohan jacket,” Boromir added.

Éomer straightened his jacket, looking affronted. “What's wrong with my jacket?” he asked.

“Nothing, if you don't mind being an ORC.” Boromir's tone was dismissive.

“This is Rohan High, not the Orthanc-Rohan Career School,” Éomer insisted.

“Still the wrong school,” Aragorn pointed out.

“We're moving back, you know,” Éomer said, his tone more matter-of-fact than argumentative. “Éowyn and I are staying with our cousin this year because our parents are out of the country. But they'll be back in July, and we're going back to our old school. I don't see much point giving up on the Riders and pretending to be some kind of Fighting Dúnedain if it's only gonna be one year.”

Merry watched Aragorn and Boromir consider this and wondered if Éomer had just earned himself a get-out-of-teasing free card.

But the blond couldn't leave well enough alone. “What the hell's a Dúnedain anyway? Looks like some dude with a bird on his head.”

Aragorn looked a little helplessly at Merry, who groaned inwardly. How as he supposed to get this guy elected if he didn't even know what his own school's mascot was?

“The Dúnedain – or Dúnadan, in the singular – were men from the west. They traveled here from Númenor and populated this region during the First and Second Ages,” Boromir said bluntly. “And that's not a bird on his head, it's a winged helm – the ancient Númenorean war-helm.”

They all stared. Even Sam and Frodo, from their table across the room.

“What?” Boromir held out his hands in confusion. “Like you guys didn't know?”

Merry shook his head, grinning. Trust Boromir to be an expert in the one completely useless subject anyone could come up with. Especially since it pertained – at least obliquely – to sports.

“You should definitely change the mascot,” Éomer said. 

“But what says Minas Tirith more than the Dúnedain?” Aragorn asked. They might not know what one was offhand, but Merry was pretty sure they all thought of themselves as Dúnedain.

“What about Eagles?” Pippin asked. “Our school newspaper is called The Eyrie, our yearbook is The Talon, and our athletic complex is called The Eagle's Nest! Eagles were kept by the Númenorean kings, so it all has the same root as the Dúnedain, doesn't it?”

Everyone considered it, and Aragorn nodded. Merry jotted it down on the list.

“I suppose Dúnedain is kind of clunky,” Boromir admitted. “Eagles fits into cheers a lot easier.”

“What else does our school need?” Merry asked. “More dances? New vending machines?”

“What you need is a viral campaign,” Legolas said suddenly. Merry hadn't realized he was still listening. “No matter what you're promising, it's got to get out there. People notice posters, sure – but a video or meme is sure to get people talking. And that's the only way to get elected.”

“We need someone who's capable of keeping promises,” Gimli added sourly. “Don't make any that you don't think you can achieve.”

Last spring Fredegar Bolger had promised to add two minutes to the end of every lunch period. The faculty had laughed at that one almost as much as his demand for weekly movie screenings with the AV club. Merry wondered if he was referring to that, or if something else was bugging him. He'd been awfully cranky today.

“So then,” Aragorn asked, frowning. “What beats internet?”

“More internet,” Pippin answered carelessly, plucking the last Oreo from the package.

“Very helpful, Pip,” Merry sneered.

“No, that's brilliant!” Legolas said, jumping to his feet. “There was a school in Dol Amroth that got together with the local Chamber of Commerce in order to create a free wi-fi umbrella for the school.”

“A what?” Aragorn looked skeptical. Merry was skeptical too, but at least he understood the concept.

Legolas grabbed Pippin's history book and put it in the center of the table, tossing the empty Oreo package onto the floor. “This is the school,” he said. He snatched the top three cards from Merry's abandoned Magic deck and put them down, one by one, in a rough triangle around the book. “Suppose this is Bag End Thrift Shop,” he said as he placed the first right next to the school. “And this is The Last Homely House Diner. And this the Entwash Fluff 'n' Fold. All three of these businesses provide free wi-fi for their customers, right?”

Merry thought he could see where this was going. Wi-fi would be huge. It would knock Sauron's whole campaign off its axis. Any kid with a laptop or tablet would be able to get online during lunch or study hall, thus eliminating the last obstacle for kids like him who aimed to never take homework home. “So you think they could be persuaded to share their wireless service with the school?” he asked.

“I don't see why not. If they provide a guest login for the school and share the passwords with students, and we have enough participants, it could work,” Legolas shrugged. “All you need is someone in the Chamber of Commerce who can convince the various entrepreneurs that it's a good cause. And a solid tax write-off.”

“All I need?” Aragorn asked weakly.

“Your father works for the Chamber of Commerce, Legolas, doesn't he?” Sam asked, looking up from Frodo's notebook.

The tall blond grinned. “Exactly.”

“Well, I think that's sorted, then,” Merry said, underlining several notes on his page. “Change the mascot, let sophomores drive to school, and convince our neighbors to give us their internet passwords.”

“How do we get our message across?” Pippin asked. “Sauron has his posters all over the building.”

“I'm pretty sure those are Aragorn's now,” Gimli said with a snicker, not even glancing up from his sketching.

“You don't want lots of posters,” Boromir chimed in unexpectedly, earning a long, confused look from Aragorn. “My brother was telling me that it's more effective to have fewer, but put them in prominent places.”

Gimli looked up, his face suddenly serious, now that they were talking about art. “Which means you can make bigger, better-looking, higher-quality pieces of campaign art that make a stronger impression than a bunch of printed-off fliers taped to every other locker.” Merry liked the gleam in his eye. He had hoped that Gimli would take over the visuals – it'd be much better than anything he and Pip could put together in Merry's basement.

Aragorn turned to Merry. “I think I should save the wi-fi promise until the speech next week,” he said, and Merry jotted it down. “That way if it doesn't pan out, we won't have it in writing.”

“And if you do have it worked out – which you will,” Legolas added, “you can make sure that you're the last speaker, so you can rise up to Sauron's challenge.”

“What about slogans, then?” Merry asked, scrawling _last speaker_ into his notebook. No campaign ever got off the ground without a great slogan.

“I assume you want something more complex than _Sauron Stinks_?” Pippin joked. 

“I'm not sure it really highlights Aragorn's merits.” Merry thought it had a decent ring to it, but it was his job to be serious here, not to play games with Pip.

“ _Aragorn's as Good as Porn_?” Éomer suggested with a smirk.

“That's what your sister said,” Gimli taunted.

“Fuck you!” Éomer was on his feet, his hands clenched into fists again, and Merry suspected that Gimli was not only ready for it, but eager.

“Guys, knock it off!” Aragorn barked. And to Merry's surprise, they did. Disaster was averted this time without Legolas intervening with Kung Fu moves. But they still didn't have any good slogans. 

“ _Not All Those Who Wander are Lost_ ,” Pippin said thoughtfully. “And maybe show a picture of someone running through the forest. It's like an homage to Aragorn's cross-country running.”

“Kind of abstract, but not bad,” Merry admitted. He noticed that Gimli had already flipped his sketchbook to a new page and started drawing a preliminary design. 

“I like it,” Aragorn said. His piercing eyes met Merry's. “Thank you for being my campaign manager.”

Merry shrugged. “I get to be the Dungeon Master while I'm still at school. What more could a guy ask for?”

^^^^

Frodo missed TV. Missed books. Games. He even missed studying for his finals. Since his session with Mr. Gandalf that past Tuesday – a mandatory part of his new, this-is-going-on-your-permanent-record life – his entire world had changed. It wasn't even that he was still grounded – Bilbo had let him off the hook after just a few days. It was just that there was so much to do. If he didn't keep reminding himself of the reward, he would have already given up.

It was lunchtime. He and Sam had something of a feast between them, with Sam's extra-large Thermos of potato and cheddar soup – no one cooked potatoes like the Gaffer – and the veritable fruit basket that Bilbo had put together for him. When it became obvious that neither of them had thought to bring anything to drink, Gimli donated an empty Snapple bottle which they filled at the drinking fountain. Luckily, they didn't mind sharing.

“How's the history paper coming?” Sam asked, swallowing a huge bite of apple and taking a long drink of water.

Frodo stifled a groan. It was a torment. He was writing a three-page paper for a class he'd never taken, based on chapters in a senior history textbook he'd had to find online. He'd never even heard of the kings of Harad or the princes who'd been held hostage. “It's not as easy as I expected,” he confessed. “Definitely not my best work.”

Sam nodded sympathetically. “At least it's only supposed to be a B-minus paper,” he offered, trying to be helpful.

Frodo didn't have the heart to explain to Sam that the low grade requirement was a huge part of what was making this such a struggle. He'd never written a B-minus paper in his life. He had no way of knowing if his work would earn top marks or fail completely.

It was part of his plan – Gandalf's plan, really, though he was only starting to realize it – to bring down Sauron's cheating ring. It seemed easy enough at the start: write a few papers for Sauron; give copies to Mr. Gandalf; wait for the axe to fall. But he hadn't counted on the papers being so time consuming and just plain difficult. He hadn't counted on Gandalf wanting to snare not just Sauron and the kids who paid him, but also the other students doing the work. And now Sam was involved – something he really hadn't counted on.

“You really don't have to do this,” Frodo told Sam for probably the fourth time.

His friend shook his head. “You can't do both parts, Frodo,” he reminded him. “If Mr. Gandalf needs someone to order a paper from that site, it's the least I can do.”

“But you don't even know how to do it,” Frodo protested. There was a website that the school officials had already known about run by someone who called himself WitchKing. There was no way of knowing if Sauron was the WitchKing or if it was one of his minions. It was possible that there was no correlation at all, but the idea wasn't one Frodo wanted to consider. Sam had tried to log onto the site, which had a whole menu of cheating options and prices, but couldn't get past one particular field. The site asked for a reference. Frodo didn't know if it wanted some kind of code, or maybe even the name of someone who had told him about this WitchKing's site.

“I'm getting closer,” Sam said encouragingly. “Merry gave me two more names today.” Merry had been supplying them with names of possible customers of Sauron – kids who had squeaked by after getting exactly the test score they needed, high-ranking kids who took on way too much to maintain their grade-point averages, and athletes who at the last minute had just barely managed not to be cut from their teams. So far, none had admitted paying for help, and Frodo wasn't too optimistic about these new names, either. It seemed to him that Merry was already scraping the bottom of the barrel.

“One of these guys – Folco Boffin – is in my biology class,” Sam was saying. “We've been friendly enough before. Maybe if I pretend I'm looking at summer school, he'll try to help out.”

“Maybe.” Frodo was unconvinced.

Sam leaned close, bumping Frodo's shoulder with his own. “We can do this,” he encouraged. “All I need is one name, and then we can follow this to its end.”

It wouldn't be that easy. And in the meantime, how many papers like this would Frodo have to write? He'd already done two. He privately wondered if Sauron weren't punishing him for saying no the first time. He hadn't been too thrilled when Frodo had approached him at lunch that week, asking if there was still cash to be earned.

“Why change your tune now, Baggins?” he'd asked, not looking up from his phone.

“The fight,” Frodo had told him, his story planned out with Sam beforehand. “My uncle cut off my allowance until school's out at least.”

Sauron gave him a hard look, and for a moment Frodo felt like he was looking right through him, at his dishonest core. His hands were in the front pocket of his hoodie, a deliberate posture to keep from fidgeting and looking nervous, and there his fingers found the smooth coolness of his ring. Something about it, the reminder that he was capable of being someone other than ordinary, good-guy Frodo Baggins, gave him courage to meet Sauron's eye, almost daring him to question his motives.

In the end, the older boy shrugged and named a price. It was far lower than his initial offer the year before. Frodo's first impulse was just to take it, but at the last moment he remembered that he was supposed to be in it for the money. He asked for more, even more than Sauron's second offer had been. The junior's eyes narrowed, and Frodo thought he'd blown it, but then the older boy spit out a number halfway between the two. They didn't shake hands, but Sauron wrote his phone number and e-mail address in a little notebook. “I'll be in touch,” he said.

“How can I reach you?” Frodo had asked. Gandalf said it was important to get as much information as possible.

“I'll be in touch,” Sauron repeated. Frodo hadn't told Sam or Merry or anyone, but that guy gave him the creeps.

That same afternoon, Sauron had texted him a maiarmail.com e-mail address and told him to send the the first assignment – outlined in the text – there. At first he was excited, thinking that the e-mail address would be traceable to Sauron, or even the kid who ordered the paper, but a bit of research showed that it was totally generic, not even tied to a private IP address.

And so now all he could do was the work. His first assignment had been about the ending of the country's stewardship back at the end of the Second Age – that was eleventh-grade work and needed to be a solid A-minus or higher, grade-wise. The day after he'd sent that paper to the e-mail address, he found a cash-filled envelope stuffed into the slats of his locker.

Frodo took it to mean that he was doing something right. The next assignment – the one he was currently working on – had come that same day, via text. Already a third assignment waited for him. It wasn't more history, thank goodness; rather, it was a relatively short homework assignment for physics. It was due on Monday, which meant Frodo had to finish it up – as well as this ridiculous thing on hostage princes – by noon on Sunday at the very latest. It was doable, but time consuming, since he had to show the math.

He wanted to lie down and sleep. He wanted to relax under a tree and read a book. He even wanted a bit of time to do his own work, worried that his own grades would slip under the pressure. Maybe he'd ask Sauron to have someone else do his homework? It sounded absurd, but Frodo wondered if that wasn't how he made the most money – farming out the assignments of his own minions.

“Frodo?” The soft voice made him jump. He looked up, surprised to see Aragorn bending next to him, his hands on the table. “Sorry,” the older boy said, seeing that he'd startled him.

Frodo shook his head. “What's up?” he asked.

“That's what I came to ask you,” Aragorn said. “You told me earlier that you were working on something for the campaign. You were a bit cryptic, and I'm curious.”

Frodo looked around. The domed ceiling made this part of the library a whispering gallery, and he didn't think it'd be a good idea if his project with Sauron became common knowledge. Just telling Merry had made him anxious. He stood up and motioned for Aragorn to follow him. In the stacks, they could speak freely.

“You like to play it close to the vest, don't you?” Aragorn asked playfully.

“This is kind of a big deal,” Frodo told him. “It could get bad if it got around.”

Aragorn sobered immediately. “What are you involved in?” he asked. “This isn't about that ring, is it? About Sméagol?”

He didn't want to think about that. Not right now. He shook his head and told Aragorn everything: about Sauron's approaching him the year before, about the threats, and how he and Mr. Gandalf had come up with a scheme to bring it all to light. He even told him about the website and Sam's involvement, until Aragorn knew just as much as anyone.

“Wow,” Aragorn commented at the end of it. “You'd think that the school could manage this without putting you and Sam at risk. Don't you think you're kind of doing Gandalf's job here?”

Frodo shook his head. “I thought so too, at first. I thought Gandalf would take my information to Mr. Elrond and I'd be done with it. But now I see that Sam and I can do things they can't. Sauron's not going to suspect a couple of kids like us. If he doesn't see us as a threat, then he won't have his guard up.”

Aragorn looked at him thoughtfully. “You are full of surprises, Frodo Baggins.” He put one hand on Frodo's shoulder. “But be careful. Sam, too. You weren't kidding when you said that things could go bad if the wrong people got wind of this; Sauron's a nasty piece of work.”

“Yeah.” Frodo didn't need to be reminded. 

When Sauron first suggested he could mess with Bilbo, it made him really nervous. His uncle's livelihood was more vulnerable than it seemed. As an accountant, he worked with a lot of sensitive information, and the businesses he worked for were often just barely on the right side of the law. If Sauron could make any one of those business owners think he had reason to mistrust Bilbo – even worse, to think that Bilbo had somehow swindled him – Frodo wasn't sure that his uncle's physical well-being would be assured. 

Sam had scoffed when he'd told him, unable to believe at first that a high school student could be capable of making good on that kind of threat, but he hadn't seen the look in Sauron's eyes. That kid was capable of that much and more, easily.

He wanted to say more, to somehow let Aragorn know that his running for president had given him the courage he needed to do something about this. To know that, even if he never involved himself in any way with this mission – quest – thing – of his, he understood that he had his back and was grateful for it. They'd never been the kind of friends who hung out, but Frodo had known almost since the moment they'd met last year that Aragorn was someone he could trust. 

“Uh, hey.” Boromir poked his head around a bookshelf. “Sorry.” He looked at Aragorn. “Can I talk to you? When you have a sec?”

At first Frodo was taken aback. Boromir had followed them? It seemed obvious to him that he and Aragorn had left the others because they didn't want to be overheard. Had Boromir been eavesdropping? His hand slipped into the pocket of his jeans, his fingertip brushing the warm gold ring there. Immediately, he was soothed. Surely Boromir wasn't helping Sauron – he was running against him, after all.

“Sure.” Aragorn's smile was genuine. He trusted Boromir, Frodo saw. They were friends. It made him feel a bit foolish for being suspicious. “We're pretty much done here, aren't we Frodo?”

“Yeah. I should be getting back to my work.” Frodo made sure to include the athlete in his smile.

“Remember what I said,” Aragorn told him urgently as he turned to go. “Careful.”

Frodo nodded and turned to go. Boromir waited a moment before he spoke, but Frodo heard him just the same. 

“I wanted you to be the first to know. I'm withdrawing from the race.” Boromir's voice was firm and decided. “I want to throw my lot in with you, Strider.”

Frodo ducked behind the next stack of shelves, cursing himself for being such a hypocrite, but unable to resist listening to the rest. He hoped Boromir would say why he was quitting.

Apparently Aragorn wondered the same thing. “Why?” he asked. “You have as good a chance as I do. Maybe better.”

“If we both run, we'll split the vote.” Boromir had clearly thought about this. “We have most of the same friends and would appeal to a lot of the same voters. That's a sure-fire way to ensure that Sauron will win.”

“And you're cool with this?” Aragorn's voice was unsure. “You announced your candidacy first. If one of us quits, it makes sense that it be me.”

Boromir laughed. “And turn your back on true love? What kind of man would I be if I let you do that?” Frodo didn't think for a second that Boromir cared a whit for love – true or otherwise – but it was nice of him to say so.

“I guess it's not just about Arwen anymore,” Aragorn said, his voice thoughtful. “Coming up with a platform this morning kind of changed things for me. Everyone was so supportive. I really wanted it for the first time.”

“You see? It's your destiny.”

Now it was Aragorn's turn to laugh. “Whatever.” When he spoke again, his tone was more serious. “But really, why'd you decide not to run?”

“Well,” Frodo could practically hear Boromir shrug, “There weren't any really good reasons to run, and a couple of great ones not to. Basically, I realized I was running to please my dad, not because I wanted it.”

At that, Frodo slipped down the aisle back toward the table he shared with Sam. Something in Boromir's voice made him realize that he'd listened too long already. Everything was topsy turvy for Frodo lately, and he was doing things – taking Sméagol's ring, eavesdropping on Boromir and Aragorn – that made him feel like he didn't really know himself so well anymore. Didn't like what he was starting to know.

But Sam smiled just the same as always as Frodo slid into his seat. “Welcome back,” he said warmly. Frodo felt instantly better.

^^^^

Gimli seemed to be over the shock. 

He sat hunched over the table and drew, his pencil sharpened so many times it was practically a nub he could conceal in his palm. He was working on one of Aragorn's posters now – from time to time he'd slide the book over, turning it so Legolas could see. It was kind of amazing. Legolas had taken an art class his freshman year, but not since. He had no idea a kid their age could draw like that.

He wanted to talk to Gimli about Galadriel. To see if he was really okay. But this wasn't the place – he glanced at the others. He considered them all friends now, if you didn't count that douchebag Éomer, but he wasn't about to subject Gimli to their questions and gossip by letting them overhear something so personal. Plus, it was possible that Gimli just flat-out wouldn't talk about it with him. Sure, they'd been friendly lately, but he didn't know how much Gimli shared with friends. Legolas told Tauriel absolutely every thought that passed through his head, but he had the idea that they weren't typical.

Maybe he should give him his phone number? _Call me if you want to talk_ or that sort of thing? He glanced at Gimli surreptitiously. The boy's eyes were hidden behind thick lashes as he looked down at his work, his expression single minded and focused. A curl had loosened itself from the braid he wore draped down his neck, long enough to brush the page as Gimli drew.

But what if he thought Legolas was coming on to him? That was one of the toughest parts of being openly gay in high school – most of the guys here were too immature to realize that he didn't view every last one of them as a potential hookup. And they weren't usually flattered by the attention, either. 

He didn't mean it as a come-on; he was honestly worried about Gimli. As a friend. And even if he did flirt a bit – sometimes he caught himself at it without even meaning to – Gimli didn't seem the sort who would get bent out of shape by something like that.

And what if he thought Legolas was coming on to him and _liked_ it? Legolas felt his ears redden. That would be a whole different can of worms.

“So. What do you have in mind, then?”

Legolas jumped in his seat. Merry, who had somehow materialized in the empty seat by Legolas's elbow, tossed him a curious look, then turned his attention back to Gimli. “I could tell that you were interested in Aragorn's campaign art. Do you have any concrete ideas?”

Gimli looked pleased at the attention. “Yeah,” he said eagerly. “I was thinking of going big. Epic.” He pushed his notebook toward the younger boy. “This one is for the _Not All Those Who Wander_ slogan.” Merry's eyes widened and he made exactly the same impressed noises that Legolas had made a half-hour earlier. 

Merry almost touched the trees, but pulled his hand away at the last moment. “What colors are you seeing?” he asked.

“Black background. Grey trees. The runner is barely there, more of an outline than a figure. With gold shoes. I want to keep it really simple. Stark.” Gimli was almost a different person when he talked about art. There was an edge of excitement in his voice that hadn't been there before – even when he was yelling at Éomer.

“I like it,” Merry said, hopping around the table to sit near Gimli. “What else do you have in mind?”

Though Legolas was interested, he found himself strangely annoyed by Merry's presence. He got up and stretched, then wandered to the periodicals rack to see what kind of magazines their crappy school had to offer. 

Not much. A couple of news weeklies, a pop science magazine, and a plethora aimed at teenaged girls. There was even a few kids' magazines, though Legolas could think of exactly no one in the school who would read them. He picked one up, flipped through it. There was an article about archery that looked decent, even if it was written for nine-year-olds.

Across the room, Frodo and Aragorn disappeared into the library stacks. That was interesting. Frodo and Sam had been acting weird all day – keeping to themselves even more than usual and scribbling conversations in a notebooks as though they were afraid of being overheard. Apparently, Aragorn was in on the secret, or was about to be.

After just a few minutes, Boromir got up, too. Legolas watched him over the top of his _Ranger Rick_. The athlete made a beeline for the aisle Frodo and Aragorn had chosen, didn't even pretend to browse. So was he part of the game, or an interloper?

Sam didn't look too concerned. For once he didn't seem to be paying the least attention to his friend. Instead, he looked out at the rain and doodled idly in the notebook. Legolas wished he could see the page better – based on the look on Sam's face, he'd bet money that the word he was writing over and over was a girl's name.

“You'll definitely have to get permission for all of this,” Merry was saying to Gimli. Something about his voice pulling Legolas's attention back. “But this stuff is amazing, so I doubt they'll say no.”

“Elrond will,” Gimli said skeptically. “He's not a fan of any of us, I think. Particularly me.”

“So get someone else to ask. Hey! How about Ms. Galadriel? She'd love to see a campaign like this, and it looks like she likes you better than pretty much anyone else in the school.” Merry didn't notice all color draining from Gimli's cheeks, didn't notice his eyes drop hastily to his hands. “I'm sure she'll talk to Mr. Elrond for you, if you ask her.” 

Legolas hurried back to the table, dropping into his chair as casually as he could. 

Gimli muttered something unintelligible, but Merry must've interpreted it as agreement; he nodded. “You're gonna see her later, right?”

“Um, Gimli—” Legolas began, but stopped when Gimli abruptly pushed back his chair and stalked off into the stacks, heading toward the northeast corner of the library,

Merry watched him go, a puzzled look on his face. “What's with him?” he asked Legolas, who only shook his head. Shrugging, Merry went back to his table where he started another card game with Éomer. 

Legolas looked toward the stacks, where Gimli had disappeared. He'd looked pretty steady, but he must still be freaking out inside. He'd even left his notebook open, his drawings exposed to any curious eye. Legolas glanced at it, then looked away. It wasn't his business, he told himself. Aragorn and Boromir returned to their table, both wearing expressions of mild relief. Boromir seemed to have a lighter step than usual, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. As they passed, Aragorn glanced down at the sketchbook. 

Legolas reached over and closed it, glancing up meaningfully at the junior. 

Another minute passed. Then another. Legolas thought about his own heartbreak, about how Tauriel had reeled him in when things looked grim. Grabbing the sketchbook, he headed back into the stacks. He passed through the biographies to where Gimli was sitting on the floor in front of the window, his legs out in front of him like a dejected kindergartener. Legolas dropped to the ground beside him.

“People get curious when you're not hovering over it protectively,” he said, handing him the book. Gimli didn't take it.

“I'm so stupid,” he said numbly. 

Legolas wanted to argue. He wanted to say whatever magical phrase it took to make this better for Gimli.

“I went to visit my boyfriend in Lórien and walked in on him fucking some other guy,” he blurted instead. It wasn't something he'd ever planned to tell him. But once the words were out, he realized it was all right. For him and for Gimli. 

Gimli looked up at him, his eyes shining. “So we're both idiots.”

Legolas felt a manic little laugh rising in his chest, but he held it back. “I guess so,” he agreed.

Gimli started chuckling, which set Legolas's laugh free. For a long minute they sat there, close together on the floor, laughing over the very things that made them want to cry. It felt good, and not in the way it felt good when Tauriel listed the top twenty reasons why Glorfindel was a dick. This felt good-good.

“I want to show you something,” Gimli said at last, taking the sketchbook from Legolas. “This is what I've been working on since detention began.” He flipped it open to a picture toward the back. It was a portrait of Boromir He'd shaded him with pencils, capturing the sparkle of humor in his eyes and his strong nose and jaw.

“It's amazing,” Legolas breathed. He hadn't even noticed Gimli watching Boromir. Had he been working on it for all three weeks? 

He was about to ask when Gimli turned the page. Merry's face smirked back at them. He grinned through the mop of his hair, his hands holding a fan of Magic cards. This was today. “You drew this picture this morning?” He asked, stunned.

Gimli nodded. “Boromir's, too,” he said. He flipped forward and showed him an unfinished sketch of Pippin, his head bowed over a book and a handful of snack wrappers scattered across the table. “Last week was Sam and Frodo,” he explained. “And Aragorn.” 

Their portraits were just as good, capturing Aragorn's amusement as he watched the others wrestle, Sam's stillness, and some kind of heaviness about Frodo that Legolas hadn't noticed – though it definitely rang true. He realized how huge this could be for Gimli – art could be his whole life, if he wanted. Suddenly that contest and that grant money seemed a much bigger deal.

He felt Gimli go still beside him as he turned back one more page. Legolas's breath caught as he realized he was looking at his own face. It was two weeks before, during that first detention – Legolas could tell by the shirt he was wearing. Even without it, he might've guessed because of the deep sadness and obvious pain that was etched all over his expression.

He didn't feel like that now, he realized. Sure, there was still a sting when he thought of Glorfindel and how he'd been treated, but he wasn't really thinking about that so much anymore. Glorfindel hadn't tried to reach him again after that text last week; the fact that he felt relief rather than disappointment at his silence was certainly telling. “It's good,” Legolas said carefully. 

Gimli made a scoffing noise. “Doesn't much look like you now, though,” he said.

Legolas grinned. “Let's just say it captured the moment.”

“We've been doing portraits this whole semester,” Gimli told him. “I never cared too much for photo-quality realism, so it's been tough. I thought you guys would be good practice.”

This was something he wasn't good at? His practice work? Legolas tried not to goggle. 

“Here's my self-portrait. It's my final project for the year, and I can't tell whether or not it's total crap.” He hesitated just an instant before flipping to a different page.

It wasn't crap. It was Gimli. Not photo-perfect, maybe a mirror image, but it was definitely Gimli – that no-nonsense gaze, the quirk of self-depreciation in his smile. His beard was a touch longer than in real life, his nose a touch smaller. His hair was loose, an intimate, uncontrolled tumble of curls the like of which Legolas had never seen, though now he wanted to with a stabbing urgency. 

“I like it,” he said after too long.

“Really?” Gimli misunderstood the pause.

Desperate to diffuse the tension – even if it were a different tension for Gimli than for himself – Legolas laughed. “Only it doesn't show your cool gauges,” he protested lightly. He snatched the pencil that had been tucked inside the spiral top of the sketchbook and wiggled it inside one of the nickel-sized holes in Gimli's ears. “What are these for, anyway?” he asked.

“To make people ask stupid questions,” Gimli growled. But he smiled as he snatched at Legolas's wrist, yanking his hand down. “And you're hardly one to talk about ears,” he continued. “Yours are positively pointy. Like a Vulcan or pixie or something.” In a flash, his finger was on Legolas's ear, tracing the curled edge.

Everything happened at once. Legolas's mouth went dry and his body thrummed and he suddenly knew that Gimli had a lot more to do with his getting over Glorfindel than he had previously realized. Gimli laughed, delighted at the fact that he'd made Legolas twitch, and reached out to touch again once the contact had been broken. At the same time Elrond's voice rang out.

“Though I'm sure that Mr. Gandalf's project will be blamed, it's hardly suitable for you to be prowling the library during a detention.”

Legolas felt a flush of shame and embarrassment as he and Gimli came back to their table, and was relieved to note that they weren't the only ones who had been away from their seats. Pippin, Aragorn, and Frodo were all slinking back to their places while Merry and Éomer tried to hide their forbidden card game from Mr. Elrond's piercing glare.

And so the day was over. 

Legolas watched Gimli put his sketchbook and pencils away, feeling giddy and terrified all at once. “I think you should go see her,” he said in a low voice, trying to remember what the just-friends version of himself would have advised. Meanwhile Legolas 2.0 wanted to invite him to his house for movies and pizza. “You'll have to get it over with on Monday no matter what.”

Gimli nodded. “Yeah. Like tearing off a bandage,” he agreed. “I have to, to get permission for Aragorn's campaign art, anyway.”

“Hey, guys.” Éomer caught up with them in the hallway. “I just wanted to say sorry, for what I said and everything. There's been a lot going on lately – I'm not usually such an asshole.”

Legolas stopped and looked hard at the boy. There wasn't much point in apologizing if he didn't mean it, he realized. It wasn't like they ran in even remotely the same circles.

Gimli just grinned. “And I suppose you'll forgive me for what I said about Éowyn?” he asked easily. Apparently he was used to this sort of back and forth. “I was out of line.”

Éomer nodded. “So we're cool?” He included Legolas in his question.

Gimli punched him lightly on the shoulder. “We're cool,” he verified. Then he glanced at Legolas. “Legs?” he asked.

 _Legs_? Legolas hid his surprise and nodded at Éomer. His issues with the guy were all about how he treated Gimli, after all. If he was fine with him, so was Legolas. 

“Great!” Éomer took a hopping step forward and dashed toward the door. “Have fun in detention, suckers!” he called over his shoulder merrily. “I am so out of here!”

On the front steps, Pippin and Merry were saying goodbye to Boromir as though they'd never see him again. There was hair tousling and arm punching and all the other ways straight guys communicated fondness without feeling queer. It was kind of cute.

Gimli turned to head around the building to the doors closest to the art rooms. “Hey,” Legolas called, jogging the few yards between them. “Gimme your phone.”

He punched his number into Gimli's phone, hoping he looked smoother than felt. “Call me tonight. Or whenever. If you need to talk.” He felt his face flush and was relieved when Gimli nodded. 

“I'll do that,” he said gruffly. He looked grimly toward the art rooms. “Better just get it over with,” he murmured.

Legolas put his hand on his friend's shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, quick apology to the Éomer fans out there... we actually really love him, and are rather fond of this douchebro incarnation, even though we understand that it's not the best representation of the original. ^_^;;


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _Gimli conquers the Paths of the Dead(heads) ~ LARPing is bad for your (social) health ~ the revelation of Saruman Of Many Colors ~ “They may take our lives, but they'll never take OUR FREEDOM!” ~ “I know when my stomach growls, there's trouble” ~ no admittance except on party business ~ Radagast loves all creatures – even dust bunnies_  
> 

Despite all the foot traffic, Gimli's chalk drawing really held up. Aragorn wondered if there was such a thing as super-strength sidewalk chalk, or if people just respected the art enough to tread carefully. He arrived for detention early that Saturday, and he took a few minutes to soak in what Gimli had created for him. When he'd shown up at school Thursday morning, he had no idea what to expect. All he knew is that it was going to be huge and it was going to be awesome.

The first one had appeared on Tuesday morning: a row of seventeen lockers right in front of the lunchroom re-painted as a forest of dark trees. A solitary runner strode across the image – more of a silhouette than a figure, really – his golden shoes the only detail. _Not All Who Wander Are Lost._ Pippin's slogan scrolled across the top in an art-nouveau script – at least, Merry had told him it was art-nouveau – and his name, _ELESSAR_ , in all caps beneath it. The painting itself was incredible; the size and scale made it unforgettable.

And then on Wednesday Gimli had done it again – this time by covering the entire one-and-a-half story, west-facing window on the landing of the main staircase. He'd painted an eagle this time, all translucent paints and heavy lines to mimic stained glass. _Let Our Fighting Dúnedain Soar!_ it insisted in a slick deco font, his name worked over and over within a border of vines and stylized flowers. Between afternoon classes, that staircase was jammed with students now, all of them eager to experience the kaleidoscope of colors the window threw onto every surface.

 _Reforge That Which Was Broken!_ urged Gimli's final piece. _Aragorn Elessar for President_. It was in the style of art moderne – again, Merry's information – an abstract tangle of lines and spaces in vivid primary and secondary colors. This time Gimli had used the wide swathe of concrete just before the last steps to the front doors as his canvas, brightly pigmented chalk as his medium. It was impossible to miss as students walked up to school, and word of mouth brought out other kids – the ones who came in through the side door or the back where the buses dropped off.

To Aragorn, as he studied them that Saturday, the lines seemed to represent the wires and cables of computers, but he didn't expect anyone else to see that, since he was saving the promise of free wi-fi for his speech that week.

His speech. Ugh.

Legolas had come through on his promise – by Friday he'd come up with a list of surrounding businesses who were willing to donate their wi-fi passwords to the school. Seven in all, which boggled Aragorn's mind. And he'd already looked into the plausibility of getting the parking rules and the mascot changed – far more challenging, it seemed, particularly the second – but still within the realm of possibility.

He sat on the steps and pulled his notebook out of his backpack. He'd been trying all week to come up with a speech, and all he'd managed was some cheesy opening confirming what he already knew – he was crap at this sort of thing. It didn't help that Merry seemed to be everywhere, at first with cheerful reminders and, as the week waned, with dire warnings about time running out and Sauron's uncanny ability to make people like him. “He has all the teachers wrapped around his finger,” Merry had told him the day before when he'd interrupted Aragorn's lunch with Arwen. “Well, apart from Mr. Gandalf, I suppose,” he amended, making Aragorn wonder if Merry hadn't gotten wind of Frodo's little project.

Frodo's project. Aragorn closed his eyes and hoped – desperately – that Sauron would be suspended or expelled or otherwise disqualified before the election took place. He wasn't at all confident that he could beat him if it weren't for what Frodo was doing, even with Legolas's and Gimli's awesome contributions.

As if summoned, at that moment Frodo climbed from his uncle's car, tossing back a casual goodbye and hefting his backpack onto one shoulder. It was unmistakably heavy, making Frodo look even more slight and small than he really was. Aragorn waved when he caught his eye, to which Frodo only nodded wearily.

He dropped his bag on the steps and slumped onto the concrete next to Aragorn. The older boy thought once again about what Frodo had told him about taking Sméagol's ring. Was that still bothering him? Was he still beating himself up over the guy getting sent to Mirkwood? “You okay?” Aragorn asked.

Frodo nodded again, seemingly content to leave it at that, but when he noticed Aragorn's concerned look, he shrugged. “I've been doing a lot of school work lately,” he told him. “Not really sleeping enough. I think it's starting to get to me.”

His answer didn't make Aragorn feel much better. He knew that this scheme to trap Sauron was bigger than just a student council campaign, but he felt responsible just the same. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked helplessly.

Frodo smiled weakly, but shook his head. “You need to concentrate on that speech,” he told him, echoing his cousin perfectly. “Sam and I can manage this end of things.”

Aragorn could think of nothing to say to that, but after a moment, he didn't really need anything. Everyone else arrived all at once; car doors slammed and greetings were called across the lawn and parking lot. He noticed that Legolas wore a long-sleeved shirt – layered under a t-shirt, no less – despite the nearly eighty-degree weather. It looked awfully warm to Aragorn, but he supposed Legolas might be sensitive to air conditioning. He was pretty thin, after all.

Gimli threw himself to the ground in the grass close to where Aragorn sat. “Thanks again for getting all that help for me,” he said, glancing at his chalk work. “There's no way I would've gotten any of these done without those guys.”

Aragorn laughed. “I wasn't that sure they'd be helpful. Sometimes they're too burned out to do anything much.”

Gimli nodded. “I have ways of getting work out of stoners,” he explained, grinning.

Aragorn didn't doubt it. Mostly likely he'd promised to share his own weed if they did the work they'd promised. Not a tactic that Aragorn himself would have tried, but he wasn't one to judge. You used what worked.

The fact that they helped Gimli at all was due to a rather difficult situation that Aragorn had gotten himself into around spring break. Due to some rather rampant drug use at MTHS, Mr. Elrond used the morning announcements to inform students of a random locker search. Everyone knew that random was never really random, and Erech, a guy Aragorn used to play with in elementary school, came to him for help. He and his friends had weed at school – lots of it. All put together, it was most likely enough to bring up felony charges. Erech, confident that Aragorn's locker wouldn't be searched, asked him to keep it all for him. Wary, but wanting to be helpful, Aragorn agreed.

It was only later that Aragorn found out that Mr. Elrond himself was conducting the searches. His girlfriend's highly mistrustful father was suddenly given the power to ruin his whole life. Not good.

He managed to move the drugs just in time, slipping the package into Arwen's locker just before Elrond and his team turned down that hallway. As it was, Aragorn got in trouble for being out of class without a hall pass, and he had to watch while a very suspicious Mr. Elrond searched his locker. Of course, he found nothing, and Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief as the vice principal and his team walked right past his daughter's locker – not at all unexpected, but a relief just the same. Thank the gods no one had thought to borrow drug-sniffing dogs from the police! So Aragorn was able to save an old friend from what might've been a pretty grim fate, which ensured that Erech and his whole band owed him. Big time.

And now he'd called in that favor. The Stoners of Erech, as Aragorn tended to think of them, had been the barely-willing army enlisted to help Gimli paint every one of those massive campaign posters. In addition to that, he made them each promise to vote for him in the election. Merry suggested that his coercion amounted to voter fraud, but Aragorn didn't see it that way – there was no way those guys had been planning to participate at all, so it wasn't like he was stealing votes from the opposition.

“They weren't even bad at it,” Gimli said cheerfully. “Sure, these are basically just giant paint-by-numbers, but they did much better than I hoped.”

“I'm glad,” Aragorn said, gazing once more at the incredible tangle of colors. “They turned out great.”

“I was expecting something more urban out here,” Legolas chimed in from a lower step. “Graffiti art or something.”

Gimli shook his head. “It's a progression,” he said cryptically. Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a look. Neither had any idea what he was talking about.

“Um,” Merry glanced up from his phone – he'd been texting since he got there. “Anyone notice that it's a quarter till ten? Wonder where Mr. Elrond is.”

It wasn't like Elrond to be late. Aragorn glanced at his watch. He hoped nothing had happened to Arwen or one of her little brothers.

“While we're waiting,” Merry continued. “Who's free for gaming tomorrow afternoon? I've got something set up with Fredegar Bolger and some other guys, but we could always use new blood.”

Aragorn perked up. It had been a while since he'd done anything other than MMORPGs. A LAN party or even a game of D&D sounded like fun. “What kind of game?” he asked.

“Don't get sucked in,” Pippin insisted, laughter in his voice. “Once you're in, they don't let you out.”

Merry swatted at him, scowling at Frodo and Sam, who were nodding their agreement with Pippin. “It's Vampire, the Masquerade – a LARP,” he said. “It's crazy fun.”

Nope. There wasn't a thing in the world that would get Aragorn LARPing. “Turns out I have a speech to write,” he said quickly. He didn't miss Merry's narrow-eyed glance.

“What's a LARP?” Legolas asked. “Tauriel's going to visit her grandmother, so I don't have anything to do tomorrow.”

“Ooh!” Merry's eyes danced with excitement. “Legolas, you'd be perfect for this! I even have a character that I could mod for you.”

“Listen to the little one,” Gimli advised him. “Pippin knows what he's talking about here. No good can come of this kind of game.”

Merry starting explaining a mile a minute to Legolas, whose face went from curious to concerned to horrified in a matter of moments. “Wait.” The blond held up his hands. “Am I gonna have to run around, pretending to be some kind of elf or something?”

Aragorn grinned at Gimli, whose eyes were watering from suppressed laughter. Even Frodo and Sam exchanged an amused look. He would bet money that every one of them was imagining him in elven garb. It wasn’t at all hard to do.

“No!” Merry cried, as though this were some farfetched notion. “Not at all!” And then, a bit more quietly, “You'd be a Nosferatu vampire.”

Gimli couldn't hold the laughter in; his bark of mirth was infectious. Even Legolas joined in the laughter after a tiny pause, and Merry's incensed look didn't last. “I guess it can seem kind of strange, if you've never done it before,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

Pippin threw an arm around his shoulder. “Or even if you have,” he agreed.

“Well, well,” a voice cut in. “You all seem to be in a wonderful mood today.”

It was Gandalf. And judging by the tired look on his face, he didn't share their happiness. He glanced over his shoulder, pressing the button on his key fob to activate the alarm on a flashy white Karmann Ghia convertible. Not the car Aragorn would have chosen for him. Not at all.

“Gandalf's back!” Merry cried gleefully. “You're a million times better than Mr. Elrond!” Sam and Frodo nodded their agreement and Pippin hopped excitedly from one foot to the other.

“I knew I'd been too easy on you,” the old man grumbled as he unlocked the door. His eyes met Aragorn's and then flicked to Frodo. “Today, the real work begins.”

^^^^

Gandalf hadn't been kidding about the real work. He was all business that morning, with none of the indulgent smiles that Frodo had come to expect. They were ushered into the library and directed to their seats, and the guidance counselor reminded them that there was to be no talking, and no moving about the library unless they were looking for references for whatever homework assignments they needed to work on.

After his terse announcement he'd gotten himself situated at Mr. Saruman's desk – grumbling at first about the ridiculous passwords and hoops to jump through – and got to work on something himself. Something that required a lot of typing, it seemed.

His mood wasn't hard for Frodo to relate to. He hadn't been exaggerating when he told Aragorn he'd been missing sleep; his assignments for Sauron were adding hours to his homework load. And on top of that, Bilbo had discovered his ring. Luckily, he hadn't asked too many questions. Still, there was something in his eyes that made Frodo nervous – he wondered if his uncle hadn't already put two and two together regarding its origin.

But now that he didn't need to hide it, Frodo was wearing it on a chain around his neck. It wasn't that he was happy with it, or wanted to show it off. The opposite was true – Frodo didn't want to forget, even for a second, that he was capable of being a despicable person. He didn't want to fall into the complacency of those who habitually get away with things. He wanted to confess to someone, to turn himself in, but he was too scared. Barring that, all he could do was to remind himself – constantly, if necessary – that he was the guy who stole Sméagol's ring. The guy who got him sent away. The guy who ruined his life.

He didn't like the reproachful look in Sam's eyes when he saw it, but that was sort of the point, right?

He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on his work – an essay regarding the Andunaic languages and their roots. It was for yet another class he'd never taken, and he wondered if Sauron was intentionally picking subjects he hadn't studied. As far as he knew, not one of his papers had been submitted for a class. At least, Gandalf hadn't made him aware of any yet. And it didn't look like he'd be assigned to write one for Sam.

Sam had gotten in, finally. Merry's Folco Boffin lead had been successful, and on Thursday night, Frodo had helped Sam place a request through the website for a computer science paper. They had shelled out considerably more for it than Frodo had ever been paid to do the work. But the fact that Folco wasn't the least bit discrete went a long way to make up for the lost allowance. Once Sam's request was accepted, Folco didn't hesitate to drop the name of the person who'd gotten him involved. A few others, too. It turned out that their daily bus ride from MTHS to the Shire had no fewer than three other students who lived in their housing development and purchased papers through the website.

“I got my mine already,” Sam whispered across the table, just a few minutes into the day. Frodo glanced up, surprised. They'd requested it only two days ago. “It came last night. I thought maybe you should look it over.” When Frodo didn't immediately take the homework he offered, Sam continued, “Maybe you'll know who wrote it?”

Frodo grimaced at the mountain of books in front of him. He thought of all the work he still had to do. Did he really have time to look at Sam's paper? Irritated, he was about to ask his friend that very question, but the look on Sam's face was strangely excited. It made him curious. “It's a long shot,” he cautioned, reaching for the pages.

“It's for computer science. The same class you took in the fall.” His words were weighted, but with what, Frodo couldn't guess. He'd never seen Sam like that – a mixture of giddiness and suspicion on his face, his eyes gleaming. It was true he'd taken a computer class. Mr. Balin had taught it, with Mr. Saruman as kind of a teacher's assistant, since the class was held there in the library. Sam was taking the same thing that semester. But what did that have to do with anything?

It wasn't until he glanced at the paper that he understood. He jumped out of his seat. “Mr. Gandalf!” he cried, clutching the pages in one hand. Everyone turned to look at him, Pippin gaping openly. Sam sat back in his chair, looking satisfied. “Mr. Gandalf,” Frodo said again, a bit more quietly. “I need to talk to you.”

The guidance counselor waved him up, the day's irritation momentarily giving way to curiosity. “What's this all about, Frodo Baggins?” he asked.

Frodo glance back at the others. He didn't want them involved. “Can we talk in private?” he asked.

With a short hiss of dissatisfaction, Gandalf nodded. “We're going to step out for a moment,” he told the others. “Mr. Elessar?” He looked at Aragorn, who nodded. In charge again, Frodo supposed.

They stepped into the hall. “Sauron's trying to get me expelled!” Frodo cried as soon as the door closed. He thrust the paper at Gandalf. “I suspected he didn't trust me, but this?”

Gandalf studied the printed pages. “I don't follow.”

“Sam ordered it on that website. For his computer science class,” Frodo explained quickly. “Only I wrote this paper! I don't know how he got it, but it's definitely mine!”

The old man's brow furrowed. “You wrote this for Sauron?” he asked, confused.

“No,” Frodo insisted. “I wrote this last fall! I took computer science first semester, and this is an assignment I turned in. He's trying to get me in trouble!”

“Easy, Frodo,” Gandalf said, motioning for him to calm down. “We don't know exactly what's going on yet.” He leaned on the wall, thinking. “You say that Sam received this paper after ordering one on the WitchKing website?” Frodo nodded. “And that you had no idea that Sauron – or anybody – had access to this?” Frodo nodded again. Gandalf's eyes closed for a moment. “And who taught your class?”

“Mr. Balin. And Mr. Saruman assisted.”

Suddenly the old man's eyes sprang open. “Mr. Saruman, you say?” he asked excitedly.

Frodo nodded. “He was helping Mr. Balin.”

Now Gandalf was nodding. “I think it's clear how Sauron got access to your paper,” he said. Frodo wasn't so sure. It seemed a little crazy, a teacher helping a student do something so awful.

But there definitely was a lot of money to be made. He and Sam had to dip into several weeks' worth of his allowance just to pay for the one assignment. 

He suddenly recalled his surprise at seeing Sauron with Saruman during detention the week before. “I saw Saruman print out some pages for him,” he told Gandalf. “Last Saturday. He used the librarian's computer.”

“That was probably it,” Gandalf mused, and Frodo could almost see the gears in his head turning. “But why he would give it to Sam is more perplexing. If you were caught, your logical reaction would be to finger him in the whole mess. Why risk it?”

“Insurance,” Frodo said suddenly, only just understanding it himself. “Suppose Mr. Balin lets Saruman grade the papers; he could overlook the fact that he'd seen that particular essay before. But, down the road, if I were to get out of line –”

“Then they have proof that you cheated.” Gandalf put it together triumphantly.

“So what do I do?” Frodo asked, worried. If it came down to their word against his, he wasn't sure what would happen. He fidgeted with his ring, twisting the chain around and around as he imagined the possibilities.

Gandalf smiled reassuringly. “Sam isn't planning on turning this paper in, is he?” he asked shrewdly.

“No,” Frodo told him, shaking his head. Of course not. Sam had been working on his own paper since Tuesday night. The reminder made him feel instantly better. “And he still has the e-mails and all the screen caps of his transaction on the WitchKing site.”

“Then I would say that he's done us a favor with this little attempt at blackmail,” Gandalf told him. “I need you to continue what you've been doing. Sam as well. Maybe he can get some names out of Folco Boffin. In the meantime, I'll investigate the Saruman angle. It seems he might be involved with the WitchKing site at the very least. And something like this must leave some kind of trace.”

Gandalf patted his shoulder. “You've been working very hard on this, Frodo. Don't think I haven't noticed. When this is over, you'll have rest enough, and you'll rest easy, I think, knowing that you've worked so hard to do the right thing.”

Frodo's fingers found his ring. The right thing. He'd spent the last few weeks feeling like there wasn't a right answer to anything anymore. At least, not an answer he was capable of finding. He wondered if Gandalf were right, if taking down Sauron's cheating ring was going to make him feel better. He sure hoped so.

^^^^

Sam was relieved when that blasted bell finally rang for lunch. It had been a long morning, in spite of Mr. Gandalf arriving almost an hour late. It was probably because it was too quiet. Everyone had been involved in solitary pursuits that day, though after some watching, Sam thought that Legolas and Gimli might be texting each other, their phones on their laps and out of Gandalf's view. Every time one finished a text, he'd glance at the other and wait for a smirk or smile.

Even when Frodo and Mr. Gandalf left the room, the whole place had been strangely subdued. More than once Sam checked the windows for dark clouds – the library had a rainy-day gloominess that didn't match the sunshine outside.

“How's that speech coming?” Merry had hissed across the table at Aragorn as soon as Gandalf closed the door behind them.

The older boy grimaced. His hair was standing up all over his head from where he'd been yanking it in frustration. “It sounds more like a battle speech,” he complained. “I mean, I was going for that a bit, but I was thinking more like the speech Mikey gives in _The Goonies_. This sounds like something from _Braveheart_.”

Merry cocked his head. “We could work with that,” he said, reaching for Aragorn's notebook.

At the next table, Gimli laughed. Legolas covered his mouth, stifling one of his own. “You're terrible,” he insisted, his delighted tone suggesting that he thought him anything but. “Did you get it for them?”

Gimli shrugged. “There was a dozen of them and only one of me. And I'd've never been able to paint all that alone. What choice did I have?” He grinned. “Cost me a friggin' fortune.” Their eyes met over the table and Sam suddenly realized that he'd missed something, holing himself away with Frodo all this time.

But watching them made him think of Rose Cotton. She hadn't been so sweet lately, not since she overheard him talking with Folco Boffin earlier that week. He wasn't sure how much she'd heard, but clearly it was enough to earn her disapproval. Sam sighed. He wished he could explain.

He'd tried. On Friday, after biology class, he'd deliberately fallen in step with her as she made her way to her locker. She'd given him a sidelong glance – not speaking, but not changing her pace, either. Like she might be willing to listen to him.

“It's not what you think,” he'd told her. “That thing you heard me talking about with Folco. It's not what it sounds like.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Doesn't have a thing to do with me, either way,” she'd replied, tossing her head in dismissal, her curls bouncing around her shoulders.

“There's a perfectly good explanation,” he'd insisted. He was desperate for her to stop looking at him like that, like she'd caught him kicking puppies or something.

She stopped in the hall and looked at him squarely in the eye for the first time in ages. “So what is it?” she'd asked. 

And Sam was at a loss. He wasn't supposed to say. Frodo had insisted that they keep it between themselves. And Merry. And apparently Aragorn, too. A part of him wanted to tell Rosie anyway. But. “I can't say,” he'd blurted out instead.

Outraged, she turned to leave.

Desperate, Sam reached out, his hand grabbing her arm and turning her back toward him. “Wait!” His voice sounded strange. He'd never touched her before, and here he was, clutching at her like some kind of bully. He let go of her and took a deep breath. “Please, Rosie.” He'd never called her Rosie before, either – not to her face. Maybe never out loud. “Won't you just trust me? For a little while?”

She'd studied his face for a long moment, her lips twisted in consternation and her cheeks flushed behind her freckles. “Maybe,” she said at last. “I'll think about it.”

And then she was gone. And now it was the weekend and Sam wouldn't see her until Monday, wouldn't know if she decided he was worth putting her trust in. 

If he didn't stop thinking about her he was going to go crazy.

“I wish it were lunch time,” Pippin sighed, listlessly opening and closing the cover of the book in front of him. “D'you remember how fun it was to go on that food run back in our second week, Merry? Wanna do that again?”

Sam frowned. That whole fiasco still didn't sit well with him. “I don't think you should, Pippin.”

It was right then that Gandalf and Frodo came back into the room, and Sam had been relieved to see that they both looked a little bit more relaxed than before. Especially Frodo. He was clutching that ring – Sam wasn't particularly happy to see that Frodo was carrying that around so openly now – but a reassuring smile came to his lips when Sam raised his eyebrows.

There wasn't much opportunity to talk after that – even a whisper. Gandalf kept glancing their way – not in a bad way, Sam supposed, but it was clear he was watching. And here Sam only wanted to find out what Frodo and the old man had decided to do about his paper. Instead they all worked in silence for what seemed like a long time.

So again, when the bell finally rang, he was relieved.

“Ah, it's finally lunch time,” Gandalf announced. “You all seem quite bursting for conversation. Well, most of you,” he added, sparing a shrewd glance toward Gimli and Legolas. And I'm sure Peregrin Took is near starvation by now.”

“Peregrin?” Sam heard Legolas ask Gimli, his voice low, but louder than a whisper. Gimli shrugged. Legolas leaned his head on his open hand, and when his shirt sleeve slipped downward, it revealed a series of black and green doodles climbing from his wrist up his arm, like vines. It looked like someone had taken a Sharpie to him.

Someone pretty darn talented, at that.

Sam pulled out his thermos and poured a cup of rabbit and potato stew, and tore a chunk off of the generously sized slice of homemade bread. With a nod, he offered them to Frodo, as well. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

Frodo took only a bite of the bread and glanced at Gandalf, who was chatting with Merry and Aragorn about the student council campaign. “It's better than I thought.” He pulled a clementine from his bag and peeled it with short, bitten fingernails. “Though I can't say too much right now.” He chewed thoughtfully at the bread. “But Sam, how did you know that paper was mine?”

Sam shrugged. “I've known you since second grade,” he said. “I know the way you sound.”

Frodo dropped the fruit and made a grab for his pencil again. “That's not good,” he said, looking frantically through his day's work and scratching out or circling sentences. “That's not good at all.”

“Frodo,” Sam began, his voice strong and even. “This doesn't mean that you shouldn't eat. You need your strength. Besides, so far you've been working on stuff for classes you never took, with teachers you never met. No one's gonna know it's you.”

“You're right,” Frodo said with a sigh. He put his pencil down, but didn't resume with his lunch.

“This is too much for you.” Sam worried. The world had always put a lot on Frodo – even his uncle, though he never meant to. It was just that he was gifted; since they were little, it was clear that Frodo could do more, could be responsible with more. He sometimes seemed way older than just sixteen, but more often than not, Sam thought it just wasn't good for him.

Frodo smiled half-heartedly. “It's not too much. It's just more than I counted on.”

Thankfully, he finally returned to his lunch, letting his homework sit, and they ate together in relative silence, listening to the conversations around them.

“I was given a time slot to practice my speech in the auditorium on Wednesday. During eighth period,” Aragorn was saying. Gandalf had gone back to his desk, and Aragorn was eating his lunch over at the table Legolas and Gimli had made their own since the first week. “Don't you guys have study hall in the afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Gimli answered. “During eighth.”

“Can you come listen to me? Give some feedback?”

“Senior skip day,” Legolas said casually, leaning back in his seat. “I'm not going to be here Wednesday.”

Gandalf stood up, walking so quickly and deliberately to their table that it made Sam nervous. “Legolas Thranduilion, I don't think you quite understand the situation you're in,” the guidance counselor said forcefully, coming to a stop in front of the senior and putting both hands on the table. “You're here because of skipping days of school. You cut classes willy-nilly.” His voice grew in volume, and he seemed to echo off the domed ceiling. “You must realize that if you skip a day, even one class, this week, or any other for the remainder of the school year, you shall not – you cannot pass!”

The whole room went still. Legolas paled. Sam ducked his head and wished he were anywhere else, and for a moment the only sound in the room was Gandalf's frustrated breathing.

It was Aragorn who broke the silence. He looked at Legolas, and in a decidedly casual voice asked, “So can I expect you to come listen to my speech?”

The blond nodded. “Don't see why not,” he managed, his voice less perfectly even, but close.

Gandalf, seemingly satisfied that he had scared the boy straight – so to speak – turned and went back to his lunch. Sam couldn't be sure, but he thought he caught the barest glimpse of a smile beneath his white beard.

^^^^

Gimli felt pretty amazing.

He and Legolas joked with Aragorn throughout lunch, the mood falling back into place relatively quickly after Gandalf's outburst. He was impressed with both of his friends' recovery time; Gimli was pretty good at ignoring teachers' scolding – part of the reason he was such a regular there in detention – but when it came from a nicer teacher like Gandalf, it was harder to bounce back from. And something about Gandalf – he seemed somehow to fill more space when he yelled. It wasn't something Gimli was eager to witness again.

When the lunch break was over, Aragorn headed back to the table he'd been sharing with Merry and Pippin. As he stood, he tossed Gimli a smile, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Gimli pretended to scowl, but they both ended up grinning like idiots. He was glad his friend had figured it out. Even more that he was happy with it.

“It” was Legolas, of course.

There had been just phone calls at first; Saturday after detention, Sunday afternoon as he lazed in his bedroom. And then Monday night, when they didn't hang up for hours and Gimli came to school on Tuesday giddy and sleepy and feeling like some part of the universe had shifted. They shared a lunch period – he found Legolas and Tauriel sitting alone on Wednesday, at the table where no one sat because it was too close to the teachers' table, and joined them. Already, after only three days, it felt like that was where he was supposed to be. And then he'd mentioned an eighth period study hall and it turned out that Legs was free for eighth as well, so they met up in the library, in the same spot as in detention.

Only in study hall it was different. Gimli didn't feel so much like he was in a terrarium, under the scrutiny of everyone around him, and it seemed like Legolas was more relaxed too. 

“Lemme see that tattoo of yours,” he'd asked the day before, and when Gimli rolled up the leg of his jeans, Legolas surprised him by touching it, running his fingers down the dragon's spiny tail, tracing the pattern of scales on its back. And then he'd let Gimli draw on his arm – a spiraling Sharpie tattoo of vines and flowers that somehow seemed to match the boy he was marking.

Gimli would never say it out loud, but it wasn't really his drawing he'd been paying attention to. He'd never touched a boy's arm like that, hooked his fingers around his skinny wrist and felt his pulse beneath his skin. Gimli almost couldn't sleep that night, remembering the steady _thrum_ of Legolas's blood and heartbeat.

His phone flashed. _You going to prom?_

 _Thinking of it_ , his fingers texted back. _You?_

_With T._

Gimli didn't know how to answer. Obviously, Legs and Tauriel would be going just as friends. Was he trying to fish out whether or not Gimli had a date? Or was he warning him that he wouldn't be able to hang out much if he did decide to come? He stared at the phone in his lap, perplexed.

It flashed again. _Follow me after a minute._

Before Gimli could sort out exactly what that one meant, Legolas was on his feet. He motioned toward the stacks when Gandalf raised his eyebrows, and after the crotchety old man nodded dismissively, the blond darted back toward the biography section. Where they'd sat last week.

Gimli's heart was pounding. He forced himself to count to sixty. Sixty-five. Sixty-seven and then he was on his feet. Not even bothering to glance in Gandalf's direction, he walked – as casually as he could manage – down the aisle next to where Legolas had disappeared.

He was waiting at the end, his eyes bright, and together they rounded the corner, back to where they'd talked the week before. “I didn't know how to text it,” he said in a low voice as soon Gimli was close enough. “Tauriel just told me that her boyfriend's gonna be in town and wants to go to prom with her.”

So he didn't have a date?

“But I already have my tux, and it matches her dress,” he went on. “Plus we have dinner reservations – I told her that she and Kíli should take them, but she said no.”

Gimli waited. He had no idea what conclusion Legolas was heading toward, but he already knew it was pointless to interrupt him at full-ramble.

“So I thought maybe you and Kíli could meet us at the dance. I mean, if you want to?”

“Are you asking me to prom?” Gimli asked. His face hurt from the grinning.

Legolas went red. “Well,” he said shortly, though his eyes danced, “it's just that you've been flirting with me since our first detention. I thought I'd throw you a bone.”

Gimli's eyes widened. Is that how he wanted to play it? “I've been flirting with you?” he asked, amused. He still remembered the thrill of shock when Legolas first poked at his ear with that pencil – partly the unexpected shiver from his touch, and partly his astonishment that he was so obviously flirting. With him.

“Sure you have,” Legolas said, grinning, his steady gaze a challenge. “I mean, didn't you sit at my table that first day? There were still plenty of places to sit.”

A laugh burst out of Gimli, maybe a bit too loud, given the clandestine nature of this conversation. “That's my seat,” he insisted. “I always sit there.”

It took a moment for the comment – too matter-of-fact to be a jest – to sink in, and Gimli wanted to take it back as soon the sparkle in Legolas's eyes dimmed. And then his smile faltered, just the tiniest bit, and Gimli felt the situation growing desperate.

So he pushed. Literally. Without even knowing quite what he was doing, he shoved Legolas – hard – against the bookshelves behind him. For an instant the blond was startled and fierce, his eyes already hardening despite his confusion. But Gimli filled the space between them, pressing himself against Legolas's body, reaching a hand around the boy's neck to tug his head down.

Legolas allowed himself to be tugged, and when their mouths pressed together, Gimli couldn't tell which of them closed the last distance. His hand tangled in the silky strands of Legolas's hair; Legolas's knee found the space between his thighs. And though he'd never admit it, Gimli wondered if this first kiss of his might just spoil him for anyone else's kiss for the rest of his life.

^^^^

Pippin snapped his book shut and sighed. Detention just wasn't as much fun without Boromir.

All week he'd spent time with the junior, receiving random high fives in the hallways and rides home from school in his Jeep. It seemed strange to Pippin, but he considered Boromir – jockiest jock who ever jocked – his friend.

Just two nights ago he'd gone with him to Boromir's brother's middle school lacrosse match. Faramir was a pretty cool guy, too; he was an athlete, like Boromir, but he seemed to be interested in other things. After the game they'd gone out to eat with their father; Mr. O'Gondor was an unsettling and stern man, but he let his sons and their friend have a pleasant evening talking about the game.

Faramir would be starting at MTHS in the fall, and seemed rather excited about it. He asked Pippin lots of questions about freshman classes, and rambled a lot about some girl he'd met online who attended the high school. He was quick to smile, like Boromir, and it was impossible not to be fond of him.

How was Boromir doing today? He was probably already at his baseball practice, working that arm that he hoped might get him into the Majors. If he were here, he'd probably be doing his lit homework. Or teaching them new wrestling moves.

Pippin pushed the book aside and left his table, making his way to the 900s. He had exhausted the school's collection of books about the history of the Westernesse. It was time to find a new topic.

He heard low voices on the opposite side of the bookshelf – in the biographies. But their words were too soft for him to get any specifics.

“Not your concern, Pip,” he told himself in Merry's voice, and continued to peruse the titles on the spines. 

Just as he was reaching for an interesting-looking book about the Great Plague of 1636, there was a thunk from the opposite side and several books clattered to the floor. Through the now-empty shelf Pippin could see the back of Legolas's head. With Gimli's fingers entwined in his hair, clutching at the nape of his neck.

They were kissing.

Aggressively.

Pippin grabbed the book and ran.

He didn't know what to think. He didn't know if he _should think_. It wasn't that he was so shocked by a couple of guys making out – well, he'd never actually seen that before, but he wasn't some kind of cave troll – it was just that it was Legolas and Gimli. In detention. Two feet from his face. And he knew he wasn't the most astute observer, but hadn't Gimli been all sorrowful over Galadriel's engagement just a week before?

Not watching where he was going, Pippin stumbled over a step stool. He almost dropped his book as he grabbed a bookcase to steady himself. Leaning – oh, he'd made it all the way to the 410s: that book on Quenya etymology looked pretty cool – he caught his breath and tried to calm his racing mind. If he ran out of the stacks like a scared rabbit, everyone would wonder what had startled him. And the last thing he wanted to do was to draw attention to what Gimli and Legolas might be doing back there.

He straightened himself up, and walked – as coolly as he could muster – down the main aisle where the computers were set up. But his head was spinning. His hands were shaking; he dropped his book and somehow kicked it beneath one of the computer tables. With a sigh, he fell to all fours and crawled under the desk to retrieve it.

He found his book easily enough, blowing a giant dust bunny from the cover – you'd think that if Radagast had time to follow him and Merry around, he'd have time to clean down there. The dust flew everywhere, and suddenly he was seized by a fit of sneezing, the third one powerful enough that he knocked his forehead on the corner of the desk. “Ow!” he moaned, reaching for his head. But the book wasn't steady in his other hand, and it slid out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

“What's going on back there?” Gandalf's voice. Pippin winced.

Scrambling, he got back onto his knees and hurried out from beneath the computers. Another sneeze. And what was that snagging his foot? Pippin gave a hard tug.

The keyboard fell first, followed by the hard drive casing. Pippin cursed under his breath, trying desperately to get his foot loose from the tangle of wires. He glanced up at the monitor, balanced precariously on the edge of the table.

“Fool of a Took!” Gandalf stood over him, his hands on his hips and outrage all across his face. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

“Uh,” Pippin didn't have the first idea how to explain. He held up his book. “I dropped this.”

And then Gandalf's hands were on his arm, hauling him to his feet. At the last moment, Pippin shook the last of the cables from his shoe; he figured he was in enough trouble without destroying the monitor too.

“Pip's bleeding.” Gandalf had dragged him back to the study area and deposited him unceremoniously in his chair. The old man had just turned back to investigate the damage done to the computer when Merry's observation stopped him.

He turned, all the outrage draining from his face as he looked at Pippin squarely for the first time. “Ah, Peregrin Took,” he sighed.

Pippin lifted a hand to his throbbing head. Yep. It came away smeared with dark blood. “Sorry,” he said weakly.

Gandalf motioned for him to come with him. As they left the library, Pippin glanced back – Legolas and Gimli were just slipping into their seats, their faces flushed with happiness and guilt as well as confused concern.

Together, Pippin and Gandalf walked down the hall, the old man stressing the importance of being careful – for his own health as well as for care of school property. Pippin didn't even want to think of what Mr. Saruman would have to say if one of the computers had been damaged. His parents had just paid for all that food he and Merry had swiped – if he broke a computer they'd probably make him pay for it himself.

Gandalf led him to a door next to the guidance office; it was locked with a keypad. He didn't even bother to cover the keypad as he punched in the four-digit code. 9-3-9-1. 

Pippin noted the number without even trying to. It was the same year as the plague in the book he'd grabbed – only upside down and reversed. He was never able to ignore numbers that resonated like that. 

Gandalf wordlessly ushered him down a narrow corridor. There were doors on either side. The first door on the left was the nurse's office, _Infirmary_ stenciled on the frosted glass window. Pippin had been there once before, when his sister Pearl had twisted her ankle stepping off of the bus.

He sat on the low cot while Gandalf rummaged through drawers and cabinets of first aid equipment. Through the open door he could see into the room across the hall. “What's over there?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“That's where Mr. Elrond makes his morning announcements,” Gandalf said. There was a microphone and a desk, and Pippin tried to imagine him sitting stiffly, shuffling through papers while informing the school which new rule was supposed to be taken the most seriously. It was hard to picture. Behind the desk there was another door, and Pippin suspected that it opened to the main office, where the vice principal spent most of his time.

“Do you think he's a good vice principal?” Pippin asked softly, as Gandalf took out an alcohol swab. He hadn't quite made up his mind about Elrond. 

“This will sting,” the guidance counselor warned him, before swiping it across the head wound. “And yes, I think he's quite good at his job.”

“He doesn't like Aragorn, though.” Pippin couldn't think of anyone better than Strider – that was what Boromir called him. He was the perfect balance of fun and responsible, of capable and smart.

“I wouldn't go that far,” Gandalf replied, his voice different now. Conversational. “He's understandably wary of any young man interested in his daughter.”

“Do you think he can be won over?”

Gandalf laughed, holding gauze to Pippin's head. “Won over? No. But I think he will come to see, with time, that Aragorn is far from the worst person Arwen could choose. If this relationship between the two of them lasts, I'm sure he will eventually grow to like him in his own right.”

A bandage was applied without too much fuss, and Mr. Gandalf pressed another into Pippin's hands. “Put this on tonight, after you wash your face or take a shower.”

“Do you think Aragorn will win the election?” Pippin asked.

“I don't know,” Gandalf said with a sigh. “I honestly don't know.”

They walked back to the library together, passing a number of defaced Sauron posters. “It wasn't a bad idea,” Gandalf said with a chuckle, gesturing at one of Pippin's _ELESSAR_ stickers. “It certainly got the other students' attention.”

Pippin beamed. He liked getting praise from adults; praise from Mr. Gandalf, he loved. 

Upon entering the library, they found Aragorn standing before the others, one hand raised high. “But not this day!” he was shouting. “This day we fight! By all that you hold dear at this good school, I bid you stand, students of Minas Tirith High School!”

“Rousing,” Gandalf commented with a chuckle. 

Aragorn whirled around in surprise. “It doesn't sound too much like a call to arms?” he asked, flushing.

Gandalf waved his hand dismissively. “I think a call to arms might be what's needed to win,” he told the boy. 

Then he turned to the rest of them. “Pack up your things,” he told them. “It's been a tiresome day, and I don't think Mr. Elrond needs to know that I'm letting you out a bit early.”

Pippin looked at Merry, eyes wide. A bit early? There was more than an hour left to go. But they knew better than to look this gift-horse in the mouth. They began to pack up their book bags with gusto. With any luck, they'd be long gone before Gandalf regretted his decision.

“We'll just have to wait for our rides,” Frodo said slowly, reluctant to put his notebook away. 

“Are you seriously asking to stay in detention?” Merry hissed.

“We could walk over to the the baseball diamond at Pellenor Field where Boromir's practicing,” Pippin suggested. “He won't mind taking us home.” Merry nodded enthusiastically, and even Sam and Frodo smiled and shrugged.

“I can just text my dad,” Legolas said.

Gimli cocked his head and took a swig of his Sunny Delight. He looked at the blond. “I live close enough. Anyone who wants can hang out there until it's time to meet your rides.”

Legolas put his phone away.

“Cool! We can work on our characters!” Merry said, punching Legolas lightly on the arm.

Pippin pulled Merry away. “You were coming with us to meet Boromir,” he reminded his friend, tossing the older boy an apologetic smile.

“About your game,” Legolas looked at Merry, his words trailing with forced regret. “I think I have plans tomorrow after all.” He pretended to look disappointed. He wasn't very good at it. “Gimli needs my help with one last campaign art project.”

“The campaign will be over by next weekend,” Aragorn offered, grinning.

“Well, I'm fairly certain next weekend is spoken for, too.” Legolas glared at Aragorn.

Pippin followed the others out of the library, listening to them chatter about their weekend plans, real or imaginary. How strange it was that when he'd started out four weeks ago, he'd barely known most of them. But now he considered all of them friends, when it came down to it. He almost wondered how he'd manage to fill his Saturdays in a few weeks, after that last detention was served.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _in the Darkest Timeline, Boromir dies ~ on the androgyny of Elves ~ O'Gondor needs no pants ~ texting time with Tauriel ~ “This is for posterity, so please, be honest.” ~ speak F*R*I*E*N*D*S and enter ~ spelling it out: palantir = internet_  
> 

It was good to be back.

Well, not exactly. Boromir had earned himself detention through the rest of the school year – four more weeks. But still, since he was going to spend extra time at school whether he liked it or not, at least he had a good group to spend the next two Saturdays with.

“I had a feeling I might see you here,” Aragorn called out as Boromir rounded the corner and made his way from the parking lot to the front doors. Aragorn was sprawled across the steps as though he lived there. After so long, he probably felt like he did. “Welcome home.”

Boromir snorted. “I'm told I should feel lucky that I wasn't suspended.” He glanced around – the lineup hadn't changed. Frodo and Sam looked bone weary; Merry and Pippin weren't much better. Pippin had talked about an all-night gaming session at Fredegar Bolger's house, so maybe they'd all been there. Aragorn seemed spry enough – he'd gone to prom the night before with Arwen Undómiel, and followed it up with the all-night lock-in at the Eagle's Nest. He'd clearly had time to go home and shower, like Boromir. But Gimli... Gimli was a mess. He looked like he woke up in a war zone, his clothes sloppy and eyes rimmed red.

“Legolas isn't here?” Boromir asked. “Did he get his sentence reduced?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Boromir sat down on the cement retaining wall, his gym bag sliding off into the flower bed behind him. “Watch it!” Sam pushed him aside with surprising force to check on the crushed blossoms.

“Sorry,” Boromir said, moving his bag to his lap.

“Just be careful next time,” Sam growled. Boromir hadn't realized he could be so fierce. It made him strangely proud.

“I wonder if we'll have Mr. Elrond today, or Mr. Gandalf,” Pippin said, stifling a yawn. He was on his stomach in the grass, using his backpack as a pillow.

“Sleepy?”

“Yeah. How come you're not? Wasn't prom last night?”

Boromir shrugged. He hadn't really wanted to go to the prom at all – that was the sort of thing soppy couples did. But his father had insisted, listing all the tired old reasons he'd regret it later if he missed this opportunity. Never mind that he wasn't even a senior. His dad wouldn't let it go.

After Thursday afternoon, he's almost hoped he'd be too grounded for prom, but it seemed that not even getting into a public school disciplinary shit-storm could get his father to let off of this one. So he'd done the dutiful thing, gone to the dance and the after-hours lock-in, where he'd spent most of the night playing basketball with the guys who were interested in more than just making out with girls. He'd managed to get a nap in around four in the morning, after he'd been eliminated from a euchre tournament. By then he was pretty much bored with the whole thing.

“How was it?” Merry asked, coming to sit beside him.

“Fine, I guess.”

A snort from Gimli pulled the athlete's attention that way; his expression was dark and uninviting. And more than a little bleary. It looked to Boromir like someone hadn't signed his Prom Promise.

Mr. Elrond showed up at exactly nine o'clock, his face no less stern than it had been in the past. He seemed especially unenthusiastic when he looked at Boromir. Even he was worn out, as he'd been one of the chaperones at the lock-in. 

Tough break for Strider, Boromir thought with a smirk.

“We're all here, then?” Elrond asked tersely, unlocking the front doors. He glanced around, his frown deepening. “Where is Mr. Thranduilion?”

At least four pairs of eyes looked at Gimli, who quite visibly set his jaw and looked away.

“I'm here.” Legolas's voice was solemn. Boromir, glanced, startled, in that direction; Legolas had been standing for who-knew-how-long by the side entrance to the auditorium, thirty feet away and hidden from view by a partial wall of white brick. For some unfathomable reason, he was still wearing his tuxedo. And he looked like shit, too.

“Apparently someone did some heavy partying last night,” Boromir murmured to Pippin. “I'd bet money he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep. Gimli either.” He glanced to where Gimli was staggering to his feet. “Those two must've gone straight from the hotel dance floor to the floor of one of the rooms upstairs.”

Pippin choked on the chocolate milk he was drinking. “Why do you say that?” he asked, his voice high and tight.

“I'm thinking it didn't go that well,” Merry disagreed, eying Legolas and shaking his head. “Not well at all.”

“Enough with the chit-chat,” Elrond barked half-heartedly. As was now the standard drill, they were led into the school, this time dragging like a cluster of zombies, not hyperactive high school kids. Even Mr. Elrond was quiet for once, not wasting the energy to repeat all the rules of detention as if they didn't already know them by heart: no talking, no sleeping, no moving around, lunch at noon. Whatever.

When they reached the library, Boromir took his seat at the table he always shared with Pippin, and Merry joined them. Elrond said nothing, apparently not caring where they sat that week. Gimli threw his bag on the floor next to Frodo and Sam and pulled out his sketchbook while Aragorn took the spot where he usually sat with Legolas. Looked like Merry was on to something about those two.

“I'll be in my office,” Elrond said curtly. “I'll be checking in on you – or sending someone else to do so periodically.” Yeah, yeah. So don't spend your morning doing anything inappropriate, like talking, or playing cards. Or teaching Jiu Jitsu to underclassmen. It baffled Boromir that the guys who designed their school system thought that extreme boredom was a suitable punishment for anything.

Mr. Elrond left swiftly, mumbling something about needing coffee, and left the boys to blink sleepily at one another.

“What did you mean about those two on the dance floor?” Merry asked, his voice even lower than usual. They all knew the way sound carried in the library, and the last thing they wanted was Legolas knowing they were talking about him.

Boromir glanced over at Strider, who had engaged Legolas in a conversation that seemed enthusiastic on one side, at least.

“They were together every time I saw them,” Boromir replied. “Legolas showed up with Tauriel – though I'd heard he was with some Glorfindel chick?”

Merry snickered. “Boromir, in what universe is Glorfindel a girl's name?”

Boromir paused, reflecting. Okay, suddenly things were making more sense.

He shook his head. “Anyway – some older guy – a friend of Gimli's – sort of took her over, so those two spent most of the night together, laughing and talking and–” Flirting. That was really the only way he could describe it.

“Yeah,” Pippin said, a knowing look on his face. “Then?”

“They danced together. A slow dance.” He didn't really have to say any more. Their high school was full of non-judgmental, decent people, but it was still a high school. Meaning that boys did not make a habit of rocking in each other's arms during the power ballads at school dances.

It'd been pretty damn uncomfortable for Boromir. Not because they were guys – he couldn't care less about that – but because they were his friends and they were heading someplace he didn't care to follow. That's why he hated dances – it was all people falling in love around him when he wanted no part of it. That, and girls pressuring him to dance when he really didn't want to.

“After that they left,” he said with a shrug. “One minute they were there, the next they were gone. I assumed they went home. Or something.”

Merry and Pippin let that sink in. They stole covert glances at Legolas and Gimli, whose backs were turned stiffly toward each other.

Finally, Merry shrugged, pulling a deck of cards out of his backpack. He shuffled like a casino professional. “And our president?” he asked. “How was his prom experience? Everything he wanted and more?”

It occurred to Boromir that Merry was interested in a whole lot of stuff. “He seemed to have a good enough time,” he told him. “Got some write-in votes for prom king, even though he's just a junior.” This seemed to please Merry, who was undoubtedly linking prom votes to presidential success.

“But everyone likes him,” Pippin said, “so it's not a surprise. Who won prom king and queen, anyway?”

“Tom Bombadil and his girlfriend, Goldberry. No big surprise there.” Boromir shrugged. “Well, he didn't win outright – it was a bit of a mess. But it was all sorted in the end without too much fuss.”

Merry narrowed his eyes. “You're leaving something out,” he accused. “What happened?”

Boromir flushed. “There were lots of write-in votes.”

“For?”

His face went red. “Me.”

Their laughter was even more humiliating than the situation.

“That's got to make your dad proud!” Pippin pointed out through his mirth.

“You knew there would be repercussions for Thursday's stunt. No one goes running through the auditorium wearing only his boxers and shouting _O'Gondor for Elessar! Vote for Elessar!_ during a mandatory assembly without becoming either a hero or a laughingstock,” Merry said with a grin. “It could've been much worse.”

Boromir rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah. 'Cause a hero really wants detention and prom king nominations.”

“And votes for his friend,” Pippin added, smiling. “I thought it was pretty cool.”

“Along with that painted back-drop that Gimli let crash behind Aragorn at the end of his speech – _Today We Fight!_ – I think we might have made enough ruckus to win this election,” Merry said. 

Boromir hoped he was right. He was sick of all the insinuations that he'd dropped out of the election for fear he wouldn't be able to compete with Sauron or Strider – or even that new guy nobody really knew. Honestly, it was a matter of thinking that maybe Aragorn was better for the job than he was. He needed to prove to the others that he was really behind him, and prove to his dad that not everyone – not even his precious firstborn – is the perfect student council candidate.

But thinking about his dad right then was gonna piss him off. “Let's just play something,” he said, gesturing to Merry's deck of cards. “Do you guys know how to play euchre?”

^^^^

Contrary to popular belief, Gimli was not hung over. Not yet, anyway. He wasn't sure if he was still drunk, or if maybe he was still buzzed from that last hit just after sunrise – there was a good chance that it was some messed up combination of the two – but he wasn't feeling any of the stomach-twisting headache of a hangover. No, he felt like shit in a much less specific sort of way.

He almost hadn't bothered with detention, but the look his mother had given him that morning said it all: she was willing to mind her business about the fact that he'd come home before ten o'clock the night before, she was even willing to overlook the fact that he'd been smoking pot in his bedroom all damn night, but she wasn't about to let him skip detention, no matter how badly things had gone. Gimli had felt a painful mixture of abandonment and relief when it looked like Legolas wasn't going to show up. But then he was there – rumpled and solemn but still so hot in that goddamned tuxedo, no less – and suddenly all he could feel was pissed.

He didn't even sit in his own seat, his pride momentarily shunted away by the gnawing panic that Legolas would try to pretend everything was normal. So now he was sitting with Frodo and Sam and they obviously had things they wanted to talk about – a conversation that his presence was clearly preventing – while his brain was buzzing along at a mile per minute and his hands did absolutely nothing and he certainly wasn't listening to Legolas half-heartedly talk to Aragorn about plans for summer vacation.

Gimli dropped his head onto the table with a _thunk_. He wondered how long he could hold his breath.

He'd counted to forty-seven when his phone flashed. It was an unfamiliar number. _Tauriel here. What the heck happened last night?_

Gimli did not want to get into it. _Ask Legolas_ , he typed tersely.

Her response was instantaneous. _Won't say. You ditch him?_

It wasn't like that. Gimli closed his eyes, trying to remember what it was like. Kíli had filled his flask last night, and whatever he'd put into it was stronger than he was used to. But he remembered that they'd danced. He'd never forget that. And then the bathroom, and Legolas on the phone when he came back. With Glorfindel.

Gimli had almost blurted out the L-word on the dance floor, but even in his tipsy happiness he'd realized that it was something better expressed sober. And then, not five minutes later, Legs was chatting with Glorfindel.

It was as though the last week hadn't happened, hadn't meant anything at all. Like _he_ hadn't meant anything at all.

 _Ask Glorfindel, then. He probably knows the whole story._ It was a childish text. Petulant. He wasn't even going to send it. Until he did.

Sam and Frodo were sliding a sheet of paper between them, writing a conversation. Gimli closed his eyes. It was like everyone in the world had someone else to talk to.

His phone flashed. Except Tauriel. He sighed.

_Glorfindel is an asshole, and that's over. Over. Over. Legolas is crazy about you._

_Nah. Rebound._ The word hurt to type, but it was worse in his head, bouncing around like a hard rubber ball. He'd wondered from the start if that wasn't what he was. It was too soon. Too convenient.

Her response was three emphatic words. _Crazy. About. YOU._

Gimli stared until the screen dimmed. Until it blanked out. He pressed a button to bring it back.

_Crazy. About. YOU._

Yesterday he would've bet his life on those words. And today? He turned a bit in his chair, twisting for a peek at Legolas. As if hearing the barely-discernible squeak of his chair, Legolas turned too. Their eyes met. It was longer than a glance, but too short for communication. Gimli looked away first. Today he had no idea.

Gimli slid his earphones over his head. Fuck Elrond and fuck this detention. He needed to think, and he couldn't do that in the library silence of that room. Sam looked at him, half-reproachful and half-admiring. That kid needed to get out more, have some adventures. Gimli closed his eyes.

It took waking up for him to realize he'd fallen asleep. Gimli lifted his head cautiously. His headphones had slid down around his neck, the music from them sounding like a tinny old-time radio. Frodo and Sam still had their heads together, the page between them covered in Frodo's tidy print and Sam's earthy scrawl. Aragorn had joined Merry, Pippin, and Boromir. They were playing what looked to be spades or euchre at the next table. Which meant –

_Crazy about you._

He turned around to look at Legolas. The blond was sitting alone, a glossy magazine open and ignored on the table in front of him. Instead of reading, he was gazing into space, looking for all the world like a photo spread himself as he stared, his chin propped on one cupped hand.

Elrond was still nowhere to be seen.

Gimli made up his mind far more quickly than he expected, his fingers silencing the music on his iPod even as he pushed back his chair to stand. He stepped deliberately across the few feet between their tables, aware that everyone was watching him. Shooting for casual, he dropped into the chair that he had claimed during his first detention, freshman year.

Legolas was impassive, his face betraying absolutely nothing. Gimli didn't know how he did it. He was sure his face was flushed; his palms were certainly slick and sweaty. A million things bubbled up inside of him – hurts, accusations, explanations. But he waited.

Finally, Legolas wrinkled his nose. “You smell like weed,” he complained. “And whiskey.”

It sounded more normal than he'd thought possible. Gimli swallowed his smile. “And you're wearing a tuxedo to detention,” he pointed out. “Let's just admit that last night didn't go the way we hoped.”

The distance fell away from his features. He blinked. “You –” he started. Faltered. He licked his lips and tried again. “You hoped?”

Gimli thought his heart was going to break open. “Fuck yeah, I hoped,” he said huskily, reaching across the table for Legolas's fingers.

They seemed to lace themselves together without any help, their fingers, and when Legolas spoke, his voice was on the edge of a whisper. “Me too.”

^^^^

When Gimli finally went over to talk things out with Legolas, Frodo was relieved. He realized with a guilty pang, that though he was happy to see his friends together again, fixing whatever it was that had so dismally broken, most of his relief was due to the fact that he and Sam could now talk, undisturbed, about their task.

“What time did it come?” he asked in a low voice as Sam slid the e-mail printout over to him.

“The Gaffer had already gone to bed,” Sam thought out loud, chewing the inside of his cheek, “so that would make it after eleven o'clock. Maybe a quarter to midnight? I was still up playing Farmville.”

Frodo nodded, looking at the printout. It was some kind of customer care survey from the WitchKing site. Definitely not the kind of thing Frodo would expect from a cheating service. “You should ask Folco if he's ever gotten one of these,” he suggested.

“I texted him this morning. He never heard of such a thing.” Sam looked worried. “Look at some of these questions!”

Frodo had been. _On a 1 to 10 scale, where 10 is high, please rate how pleased you were with the results of our service in regard to: speed of delivery, subject matter, and discretion, read one near the top. Were you dissatisfied with your purchase in any way?_ read another. And at the very end: _Would you recommend the WitchKing to a friend?_

“He wants to know why you didn't turn it in,” Frodo guessed. “He can't just say so, or else we'd know that Mr. Saruman was involved, but I'm betting that's what he's after.” It probably made him mad, losing his little insurance policy on Frodo. Guys like Sauron always got sloppy when they got mad.

Sam looked uncomfortable. Although he hadn't been able to come up with an alternate explanation for how Sauron had gotten a copy of Frodo's paper, the idea that a teacher was involved in this whole thing really unsettled him. “Maybe he's just looking to improve his service,” he suggested weakly. Frodo gave him an exasperated look. Sam's reluctance to believe that teachers could be selfish, bad people was starting to wear on him.

They discussed the pros and cons of actually submitting the form. For Frodo's part, he was sick of jumping through Sauron's ridiculous hoops – he thought they should take the survey to Gandalf and forget all about it. Sam disagreed. “I think we should play dumb for as long as we can,” he insisted. “No reason to make him suspicious if we still need to gather information.”

“But this is stupid,” Frodo protested. He didn't want to say so, but it made Sam look stupid, too. He imagined Sauron having a good laugh at that survey, convinced that he'd outsmarted slow little Sam Gamgee who couldn't even pass a computer science class without paying for help. It made him furious.

“Stupid or not, it's what we agreed to do,” Sam countered, his jaw set stubbornly.

Fine. Let Sauron laugh at him; it was no skin off his back. Frodo shoved the paper back toward his friend. “Fill it out, then,” he said curtly. “I don't even care.” He wanted to be done with all of this. He wanted summer vacation and sleeping in and hanging out in Pippin's basement watching monster movies.

Sam looked hurt. He was about to say something about it, something that would either start an argument or, more likely, shame Frodo into apologizing. But just then, something caught Frodo's attention and he waved his friend silent. He grabbed his binder and flipped open to a printout of one of the many e-mails he'd sent, turning assignments in to Sauron. “Look!” Frodo slid the binder between them and snatched Sam's paper from his fingers, laying them side-by-side. “Nazgûy009@maiarmail.com,” he read. “It's the same on both!”

Sam looked eagerly at the pages, but then shook his head blankly. “We couldn't trace that e-mail to Sauron,” he reminded Frodo. “He never even used it to send you anything.”

Frodo grinned. “Not directly,” he agreed. “But I have a text giving me this same e-mail address and instructing me to send finished assignments there. A text that came from Sauron's dad's cell phone number.” Gandalf had cross-checked it with phone numbers in the school's records, and it was on more than one contact form filled out and signed by Sauron's father.

Sam's face transformed, his hurt feelings forgotten and a disbelieving smile curving over his mouth. “So we finally found a way to link him to the WitchKing site!”

Frodo nodded. That meant they were almost done. He couldn't wait to tell Mr. Gandalf on Monday. Feeling optimistic for the first time in ages, Frodo pushed all the bogus assignments to the other side of the table. He glanced at his chemistry book, knowing he should prep for the lab that was coming up, but tossed it onto the pile with the rest. “I'm going to read a book,” he whispered to Sam, fishing in his backpack for the paperback science fiction novel he's been forced to abandon weeks ago.

Sam grinned, bumping his shoulder with his own. “You've earned it.”

But he wasn't able to read more than thirty or forty minutes before the library door opened – Mr. Elrond was actually checking in on them. Whispered conversations stopped, hands of cards were tucked beneath legs and into books, and Legolas almost fell out of his chair, yanking himself away from where he sat close to Gimli. But it was Mr. Gandalf's white-bearded face that peeked around the door, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he seemed to let everyone get situated for a second before coming in. Mr. Elrond followed close behind, his expression as stern as usual.

“Mr. Baggins,” Elrond said, motioning Frodo up to the desk.

He was halfway across the library before he realized that Sam was right on his heels. A smile came unbidden to his lips – his friend's audacity was amazing to behold, sometimes.

“Can I help you, Mr. Gamgee?” Mr. Elrond asked softly.

Sam straightened his spine. “I'm involved in this, too,” he insisted. “Besides, anything you tell Frodo, he'll just come and tell me, anyway.”

The two men exchanged a look, and for possibly the first time ever, Frodo caught a glimpse of what appeared to be humor in the quirk of Mr. Elrond's mouth. Before he could be sure, however, it had been pressed out into a look of exasperated acceptance. “Very well,” he conceded. “Mr. Baggins, Mr. Gamgee, follow me, please.”

They followed Mr. Elrond into one of the reading rooms – they were always locked, as far as Frodo could tell, which made him wonder how exactly anyone was supposed to read in them. Gandalf closed the door behind them, and for a moment Frodo felt the unpleasant suspicion that he had somehow gotten himself in trouble again.

“Mr. Gandalf has kept me apprised of your work,” Mr. Elrond began after they had all gotten themselves situated around the table. In reminded Frodo of an interrogation room in a police drama: Elrond and Gandalf on one side, Sam and him on the other. He couldn't tell from Mr. Elrond's tone whether he was pleased with what they were doing or thought it was a waste of time. “We've just received a call from Ms. Aredhel. It seems that a copy of a paper you gave us has been turned in by a senior in her AP history class.”

Frodo felt frissons of emotion course through him – pride and relief, sure, but mostly panic. On the one hand, they were really close to nailing Sauron once and for all. But on the other, Frodo didn't know for sure that he wasn't going to somehow wiggle out of this trap. And if he did, what would stop him from heading straight for Bilbo? 

“That's great!” Sam burst out. “I told you all that work wasn't going to be for nothing,” he told Frodo, beaming.

Sam's cheer made him feel a fraction better. “So what now?” he asked, more cautious with his enthusiasm than Sam. “You have enough to go after Sauron, right?”

The two adults exchanged a look. It was a look that suggested that Frodo was getting ahead of himself, and he didn't like it one bit. “He's in a position to hurt my family,” he reminded them, his voice hardening. “You have to do something before he figures out I'm the one who helped you!”

“Easy, Frodo,” Gandalf said, his voice kindly. “We will see this through – have no fear on that account – but there are things which must be done first. Protocols which must be observed.”

“What sorts of protocols?” Sam's eyes were narrowed suspiciously. Not for the first time, Frodo was grateful to have him there. Sam cared about Bilbo almost as much as he did. “It seems to me you have all the information you need.”

“We still can't link him to the WitchKing site,” Elrond explained, an edge of grown-up condescension in his voice. “And we don't know if he has an accomplice. Suppose the site continues to run even after we put a stop to Sauron's part? We would be back to square one, but this time the WitchKing would be aware of our interest.”

Frodo hadn't thought of that. He'd been focused on Sauron, because of Aragorn. Because of Bilbo. But Mr. Elrond and the rest of the school administration had been aware of the WitchKing site for a long time, unable to even begin to do anything about it. Frodo could imagine how frustrating that must've been.

“But we can,” Sam said suddenly. He looked excitedly at Frodo. “We have proof that Sauron and the WitchKing use the same e-mail address!”

Frodo had nearly forgotten. “It's true!” he cried.

In a rush they explained about the survey, about the _nazgûy009_ account, about Frodo's concern over Bilbo if Sauron ever found out he'd had anything to do with it. “That's why you have to be quick on this,” Sam insisted. “That guy's just nasty enough to follow through on his threats.”

The two adults brightened visibly at the turn of events, once they'd sorted out what was what and who had which bits of proof. “And we have the white hand files from this computer,” Gandalf added quietly. Frodo didn't know what _white hand_ meant, but he suspected they'd found something incriminating on Saruman's hard drive.

“I want it all on my desk by the end of the day Tuesday,” Mr. Elrond told Gandalf. He stood up, his hand on the doorknob before he turned around, including Sam and Frodo in his look. “I want every scrap of paper, every screen cap, every text message – saved with time stamps. I will not have our school's reputation in peril. We are going to nail this kid and every last one of his associates.” He glared hard at Frodo, and it felt as though he were challenging the integrity of his soul.

He was shaken, uncertain whether or not he would pass such scrutiny. Long moments after Elrond strode from the room, Frodo sat still in his seat, trembling. He reminded himself that Mr. Elrond was one of the good guys and that he himself wasn't a willing participant in Sauron's scheme. Still, he wished he could be more like Sam, the kind of person whose spirit wouldn't balk, but tended to shine even more beneath such intense pressure.

“I expect you can have it all to me by Tuesday morning?” Mr. Gandalf was asking.

“What if some of them were coerced?” Frodo asked suddenly. That sharp stab of fear when Sauron mentioned Bilbo's name for the first time – it had never gone away completely. “It doesn't seem right that kids should get in trouble because Sauron found a way to blackmail them.”

Gandalf looked startled. “I'm sure we'll look at each case,” he said hastily. “But really, Frodo, there has been a lot of money exchanging hands; I would hesitate to assume that it came to blackmail in most cases. And students know they can always come to Mr. Elrond or me or any teacher, really. There are always other options.”

Frodo shook his head. “I almost didn't,” he said. “I spent almost two years not saying anything to anyone, relieved that he didn't have any real dirt on me and hoping he would stay satisfied by my silence. I'll bet other kids didn't have that option.”

Gandalf's indulgent expression turned sterner. “Are you saying that you won't turn in all of your information?” he asked.

“Come on, Frodo,” Sam coaxed gently beside him. “Let's just give him the names and be done with it. It's Mr. Gandalf we're talking to – nothing bad's gonna happen to anyone if they don't deserve it.”

“Like Folco Boffin?” Frodo asked him. Sam's face went pale. Frodo knew that he'd come to think of Folco as a friend lately. Somewhat misguided, sure, but a friend just the same. “Does he deserve to be suspended?”

Gandalf waited, silent. But Frodo realized he hadn't meant it to be a rhetorical question.

“I want to know!” he insisted. “Who gets to decide which kids are the good ones who deserve another chance and which kids get sent to Mirkwood like Sméagol? Did anyone bother to find out whether or not he had a good reason for hitting me that day? Will Mr. Elrond take into account that Folco Boffin has five little brothers and sisters, so if he doesn't get a scholarship then he doesn't get to go to college at all? Or will he just be branded a cheater, end of story?” He was standing now, though he didn't remember getting up, his chair knocked to the floor behind him. “And what about the rest of them? Who gets to decide which stupid mistakes are forgiven and which will be worn around their necks in penance forever?”

Sam didn't say a word, but he was looking at the ring. Frodo balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets, determined not to grab at it and give his friend the miserable satisfaction of knowing how much he wanted it. Needed it.

The bell rang, loud and long and awful. None of them moved.

At last, Gandalf stood. “You've given me a lot to think about, Frodo Baggins,” he said quietly. “And I hope, in turn, that you will consider trusting me.”

Frodo hadn't thought of it like that, as a matter of trusting or not trusting Mr. Gandalf. He nodded slowly. “I just don't want to ruin anyone else's life,” he mumbled.

“Go eat your lunch,” Mr. Gandalf urged softly. “Eat your lunch and read your book, and let me worry about this.”

^^^^

“Where did you go last night?” It was the question Legolas had wanted to ask since he first realized Gimli was gone. The question he'd wanted to blurt out the instant he saw him this morning. The moment they spoke. And now it looked like they might gloss right over it, both of them so eager for everything to be okay, afraid to talk about what wasn't okay.

He couldn't let them do that.

It was good to know that he and Gimli still had it – that giddy, happy thing between them that Legolas wasn't sure he was ready to define. Really good. But he had to know if it was something that could last, or if their next date was going to be more of the same.

“Home,” Gimli answered, his eyes darting to Mr. Elrond, who had left the reading room and was heading out of the library without so much as a backward glance. He didn't meet Legolas's eyes, and that worried him.

“No, seriously,” he insisted. Of course he went home, but Legolas wasn't going to let him off on a technicality. “Where did you go when you left the prom?”

“Just home,” Gimli said; his voice sounded so honest. Tired. He finally looked up, and his eyes were steady, too. “I walked home and hung out in my room.” He looked shrewdly at the tuxedo jacket Legolas had draped over his chair. “But you haven't been home yet, have you?”

Legolas shrugged. Tauriel had already scampered off with Kíli by the time he realized that Gimli wasn't coming back. He'd looked all over the hotel ballroom, and then around the hotel itself. He'd finally just decided to walk around the city. “I went for a walk.”

“Alone?” Gimli asked suspiciously. “All night?”

Frustrated, Legolas paused before answering. He was the one who had pursued this, after all. It would be pointless to get angry now. “Alone,” he confirmed, keeping his voice even. “I didn't want to be around anyone.” Except Gimli. He'd spent most of the night furious with Gimli, but still wishing he were right there next to him.

He inhaled deeply, both repulsed by and attracted to the mingling scents of alcohol and cigarettes and pot in Gimli's hair and clothes. Legolas didn't have a problem with people smoking or drinking, even though he rarely did so himself. Marijuana made him think of Glorfindel's dorm, and the alcohol... well, now it reminded him of last night.

“You were pretty drunk. Did you have any trouble getting home?” He'd worried about that, too, in the moments when he was too exhausted to be angry, when he tried to convince himself that his date had only wandered off in a drunken haze.

“No.” Now Gimli was guarded. He let go of Legolas's hand. Legolas didn't want this to be a fight. He almost dropped the whole conversation, but he couldn't be in that kind of relationship. Not again.

There was a long pause before he got up the nerve to ask the next question. “Why were you drinking so much?” Legolas didn't know how to tell someone he'd been a bad date. It was easier to be mad at Glorfindel, who'd actively treated him like shit. Gimli, on the other hand, brought a flask to prom and spent half of their time together drinking out of it. And it turned out he was a quiet drunk. He'd grown more and more withdrawn as the evening wore on, his humor more self-deprecating and gaining a nasty edge. Not so fun to be around.

“I was nervous,” Gimli admitted reluctantly. “So Kíli gave it to me.”

“What was there to be nervous about?” Whatever it was, it wasn't just enough to make Gimli drink. Apparently it was enough to chase him away altogether.

“You know,” Gimli said, his fingers prying at one of the stickers on his sketchbook, his eyes downcast. “You like someone, you worry that maybe you misread the cues.”

Legolas bit back a harsh laugh. “You misread my tongue in your mouth?”

The bell rang as he spoke, and for the first time in four years he was grateful that it was piercing and obnoxious. The chatter at the other table had lowered quite a bit with Gandalf and Elrond in the vicinity, and he didn't care to be overheard. But with the bell came the freedom of lunch, and the cards came out again. And then Merry started eagerly re-enacting a Dungeons and Dragons encounter with something called an owlbear. It seemed loud enough, but Legolas didn't want to risk anyone hearing them.

“Come with me,” he said, rising from his seat and walking back toward the biographies. It was where Gimli had first kissed him. How was that in one week he'd gone from pouncing him to running away?

“I was worried,” Gimli said when they reached the wall and the window. He looked out at the lawn, at the clouds. Anyplace but at Legolas, it seemed. “I was in my head, worrying that you just needed a rebound. That you'd go to away college and forget I even exist. That I'm only with you because Glorfindel isn't.”

Legolas wanted to reassure him on all three measures, but didn't want to get distracted from the subject at hand. “So why did you ditch me?” he asked.

Gimli's face flushed and he grew more agitated. “You weren't even thinking of me,” he said finally.

“I wasn't?” Legolas repeated, confused. He'd been thinking of nothing else for two weeks. Embarrassingly obsessed, almost.

Gimli finally turned. Looked him in the eye. It wasn't a nice look. “When I went to the bathroom. I came back and you were on the phone with him.”

Shit.

Legolas hadn't wanted Gimli to know about the random texts from Glorfindel, and he certainly hadn't wanted him to know about the call.

“Look,” Legolas began. “He called me. I didn't even want to talk to him, but I figured that I needed tell him to fuck off once and for all and leave me alone. Let him know that I've moved on.”

Gimli took a moment to process this. He didn't seem to disbelieve, so that was something. “So what did he want, exactly?” Gimli asked, looking intently at Legolas.

He already knew the answer, obviously. It was a test to see if Legolas was going to be honest.

“He wanted to hook up,” Legolas answered, unwilling even to sugarcoat it and risk looking like he was hiding something. “He said it was over with Haldir and he wanted us to get back together.”

The look on Gimli's face was strange. Unreadable. He leaned against the wall and looked over Legolas's shoulder when he finally spoke. “Looks like you get what you've wanted since the first day I met you. He called you, he wants you.” His voice was flat.

Seriously? Legolas leaned over Gimli, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of his shoulders. “So what? Was your decision to ditch me last night some kind way of telling me to go back to an asshole I don't trust? Did you think you'd make it easier for me to decide by taking yourself out of the picture?” He didn't mean to sound so angry, but Gimli's willingness to let him go was really pissing him off.

“I thought that five weeks ago you were crushed because he wasn't in your life!” Gimli countered furiously. “And maybe in five more weeks I'd be the one on the phone, begging you to call me back. And I can't handle that!” Gimli's breath was ragged with anger and his eyes blazed with fire. “You were completely in love with him, and now you say you don't feel anything at all. How am I supposed to know that the same won't happen with me? That it won't just go away?”

Legolas swallowed, trying to move the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Gimli's, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. Broken. “So you gave up on us before there was even an us?”

For a long time, Gimli didn't speak. When he did, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I guess I did.”

Legolas moved his right hand from the wall, bringing it up to Gimli's cheek. He felt Gimli lean, almost imperceptibly, into the touch. “You may be right,” Legolas told him, his voice was low and shaky. 

Gimli's eyes flew open again, his expression pained.

“Five weeks from now this could be over,” Legolas continued softly. “Or it could be better than anything we imagined. We can't know unless we throw ourselves in. And I've already done that, Gim. I like you more than anyone I've ever met – my feelings for you aren't anything like what I had with Glorfindel. This is real.” He kissed him then – a soft, slow kiss, unlike the forceful and reckless kisses they had shared until now.

“Did you tell him to fuck off?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Legolas cupped Gimli's face in both of his hands, his lips still hovering over Gimli's. “If I wanted him, I'd be with him. If I just wanted sex, I'd have sex. Gimli, I want you.” He punctuated his statement with another kiss – deeper and more urgent than before.

Gimli kissed back hungrily, but broke off suddenly. He pushed Legolas back, holding him at arm's length. “A relationship with me? Not just sex?”

Legolas laughed. “I slow-danced with you in front of the whole damn senior class. I wouldn't do that with someone I was planning on using for sex.” 

Gimli visibly relaxed, and Legolas felt a wave of sweet fondness crash over him. He was so inexperienced, brand new at all of this. “I've spent the last two weeks planning my summer with you. Imagining going up to that new amusement park in Mordor and riding Barad-dûr together. Camping. Star-gazing. Dancing at the Glittering Caves.”

“I don't dance,” Gimli protested, his eyes shining. 

“You lie,” Legolas said, sliding one hand around Gimli's lower back and tugging him forward so their bodies were pressed as closely as they'd been the night before. “I've seen you dance.”

Gimli's face flushed. “I can hardly believe we did that,” he said, shaking his head.

“You do crazy things,” he began, leaving off the rest of it. _When you're in love_. There was time enough for that conversation later. “But it's nice to be alone for a change.”

“Away from prying eyes.” Gimli's fingers twisted in the puffy excess of his tuxedo shirt, yanking it from the waistband of his pants. He slid his fingers just beneath, Legolas's breath hitching as they made contact with his skin.

“I'm sorry I got drunk and stupid on our first date,” he whispered, his breath hot against Legolas's ear.

“I'm sorry I answered the phone.” Legolas kissed him, four soft presses of lips against the scruffy stubble of Gimli's jaw. “I'm sorry Glorfindel exists.”

Gimli pulled back and looked at him fiercely. “I'm going to make sure you never have any reason to say that about me,” he promised him. And Legolas didn't doubt it. Gimli wasn't like any guy he'd ever met.

And then they were kissing again, pushed by the fever of fighting and the intimacy of the confessions that came afterward. While Legolas never quite forgot that they were in the school library, in detention, no less, any concern over that fact drifted away from him as one of Gimli's hands reached up to stroke the skin over his ribcage.

It didn't seem fair that Gimli had found skin so easily and he was still fumbling with clothes. His hands had somehow found their way to Gimli's ass, and he grabbed it firmly, pressing his hips – oh, the hardness there! – against his own in a slow grind until his knees went weak with longing. He wanted kneel down, to bury his face in Gimli's warmth and take him into his mouth and show him how good it could be.

But. Library.

“Are you hungry?” he asked against Gimli's mouth in an effort to remind them both of where they were and who might wander over at any time.

Gimli groaned. “Starved,” he growled out, his fingers moving under Legolas's shirt to skim over his nipples. Hell, the blond had forgotten he had nipples until that moment, and now he could think of little else.

A swell of laughter from the others made him realize once more. “Lunch,” he managed between nips to Gimli's earlobe. “What'd you bring?”

It took a moment for the boy's eyes to focus. He blinked, confused. “Nothing,” he managed at last. “You?”

Legolas hadn't gone home and he'd spent the last of his money buying donuts around four-thirty that morning. “Not a bite,” he told his friend, nipping at his jaw.

“Think we should go mooch off the guys?” Gimli's suggestion sounded valid, but his fingers were working at the buttons at Legolas's collar. His mouth followed their lead, his tongue flicking out to taste the hollow of his throat.

Not certain he could speak, Legolas shook his head. “Who needs food?” he asked a few minutes later.

Gimli didn't even answer.

^^^^

Detention was boring today, Merry thought. Not that interesting things should be happening when they're all supposed to be enduring punishment, but. Still. This past week had been really exciting, with the speeches on Thursday and planning his epic D&D campaign for their all-night anti-prom party. 

Sure, sophomores and freshmen weren't permitted to go to prom unless their dates were upperclassmen. But he still called it an anti-prom party in order to make Fredegar feel better about not having a date. 

That day was tedious, though. The morning had been quiet; the only sliver of light in an otherwise dull day was playing euchre with Aragorn, Boromir and Pip. But that had been entertaining only so long. The juniors were pretty good and he'd gotten sick of their goofy gestures to show off being one point away from winning. If the entire student body had seen Aragorn mooing with cards propped up on his ears, there was no way on earth he'd win this election.

Lunch came and went, and the only interesting thing to come out of it was Legolas and Gimli apparently making up from whatever tiff they'd had – well, at least they seemed a lot happier than they were that morning. After lunch ended they returned to their usual seats again, whispering quietly and laughing at whatever Gimli was drawing. Frodo and Sam wouldn't say anything about their mystery conversation with Gandalf and Elrond. The only people who seemed to be free with their stories were Aragorn and Boromir, who'd been laughing about different things that had happened the night before.

“I wonder how the election's going to go,” Pippin said, grabbing a handful of popcorn from a giant tin he'd smuggled in his gym bag. “D'you think the speech was good enough?”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows, seconding the question.

“I don't know,” Merry said honestly. It wasn't a good speech, as far as rousing orations went, but it was only a high school election. He didn't figure the kids were expecting too much. “The message is out there – that there's a better option than Sauron available. But the guy's a natural speaker. He draws you in. And Aragorn...”

“Isn't.” Aragorn finished with a bitter sigh. He tossed popcorn kernels into the air and caught them in his mouth. “I did the best I could,” he finally said with a shrug. “And it seemed like there were some people who really liked what I had to say.”

“And there's always the fangirl contingent,” Merry said thoughtfully. The other three looked at him quizzically. Merry smiled. Guys were so clueless. “I don't know if you realize what a huge thing Boromir did for you Thursday,” he continued. He ignored the sputter of protest from Boromir. “All day Friday, girls were saying how sexy they think he is and they trusted him when it came to supporting you.”

“Wait a minute,” Boromir interjected. “Girls are going to vote for Aragorn because they find me attractive? That doesn't even make sense.”

“Then why did you do it?” Pippin asked. 

He shrugged. “I just– I just wanted to endorse Strider.” He tossed a piece of popcorn toward Pippin, who caught it in his mouth. They both punched their fists into the air victoriously. “SCORE!”

“Shhh!” Sam hissed from his table. “You're gonna get us in trouble!” He was right, of course. Given that it was an Elrond day, rather than a Gandalf day, they were getting awfully sloppy. 

“I think it was pretty cool,” Legolas told Boromir, leaning back in his chair. “You made a statement, and whether it's people who are just voting because you're good looking or people who are voting because it showed that Aragorn had good, loyal friends – it's people voting. There's no such thing as bad publicity, they say.”

“And Aragorn handled it well,” Gimli added. “If he'd freaked out or got flustered, people wouldn't have been surprised. But laughing at it? That shows a guy who can roll with the punches.” He pointed at one of Boromir's protein bars, then turned his palm upward, as if asking if he could have one. Boromir tossed it over Aragorn's head. Catching it easily, Gimli broke it in half and shared with Legolas. 

“But is it enough to win?” Merry asked. “I don't know. I'm pretty sure we're still the underdogs in this race. We had better artwork and a better message, but Sauron has so much...” He couldn't think of the word.

“Confidence,” Frodo finished softly. “He's a smooth talker who always knows exactly what it takes to get people to do what he wants. But his arrogance might very well be his downfall.” He glanced at Sam, half-smiling. “I'm guessing that he's completely underestimated you.”

Merry nodded thoughtfully. “And you have the likability factor that sticks,” he told Aragorn. “Sauron impresses people at first sight, but the more you hear him, the emptier he seems. You, on the other hand, make friends wherever you go. Just yesterday I heard Éomer telling someone to vote for you.”

Aragorn choked on his popcorn.

“I thought he hated you 'cause of all that stuff with his sister,” Boromir said.

“So did I! And it wasn't all that much stuff with Éowyn,” he insisted, glowering.

“That reminds me... how's the viral campaign going?” Merry asked Legolas.

The blond shrugged and got to his feet, fishing his phone out of the rumpled tuxedo jacket he'd left draped on a chair. “It's hard to say,” he said, walking over to their table. “I've had a lot of retweets from other students, and Tumblr is mainly filled with pictures of Boromir in his boxers.”

“Where did you find Minas Tirith High School underwear, anyway?” Aragorn asked with a smirk.

“Shut up.” Boromir was looking like he regretted his stunt more and more.

“I'm not getting much of a signal,” Legolas said with a scowl. “This page is taking forever to load.”

Merry sighed and made his way over to the bank of computers by the window. “Maybe it's just a matter of outsmarting Saruman,” he murmured, moving the mouse to bring up the desktop. 

“It's not going to work,” Pippin said, jumping from the table and running to the circulation desk. “If you can't get online on a Monday, you certainly can't on Saturday. Unless you try from Saruman's desk.” He settled himself into the seat Gandalf always preferred. Merry had to give him credit – when the gods were handing out brains, they gave Pippin extra guts instead. He joined him at the desk.

“What's this?” Pippin asked. An ominous white hand appeared on a black screen, and beneath it was a prompt.

“It looks like he has it password protected.”

“What's the password, then?”

“Pippin, if we knew, we wouldn't be campaigning to get free wi-fi,” Merry said, knocking his friend lightly on the head. “Let me give it a go.”

At first he tried to think of things that Saruman might be interested in. When he came up with absolutely nothing, he started typing in random words instead – sports teams, literary characters, television show titles – anything that struck him as a potential password. It was looking as though his long-shots weren't going to pan out, but suddenly the screen changed and they were looking at Saruman's desktop.

“I'm in!” he cried triumphantly.

“Move over!” Pippin pushed him off the seat and took control, opening the web browser and typing madly. Merry didn't even know what he was looking for.

“What was the password?” Boromir asked.

“I have no idea.” 

“Someone should watch the door,” Sam said nervously. “We've been lucky so far, but you know one of these days you're going to get caught.”

“Isn't that why we're all here?” Gimli asked drily.

“What're you looking up?” Aragorn asked Pippin, leaning over the circulation desk to get a look for himself. 

“Social networking sites. I checked Facebook, and didn't really see anything. But now I'm going for YouTube–”

“Pip, you didn't spell it right!” Merry hissed, but not in time for Pippin to correct his typo. It took him to a site that was most definitely not YouTube. He blinked, shocked. Didn't the school have automatic blocks to prevent this sort of thing? Saruman must've turned his off. Wow.

“Oh no,” Pippin gasped, backing away from the computer. More images appeared, and they were pictures of people. Naked people. People doing seriously questionable, seriously naked things with other people. “Oh no.”

Even more popped up as Pippin panicked. It was porn. It was the dirtiest pornography Merry had ever seen. And he couldn't look away.

“It's a cascade of porn pop-ups!” Merry announced. To whom, he had no idea. It just seemed like the kind of thing to keep people informed about.

Legolas snickered. “Without the pop-up, it'd hardly be porn, now would it?” he asked.

“Whoa.” Boromir leaned across the information desk, his eyes nearly as wide as Pippin's. “Is that a dog?”

“Make it go away!” Pippin shrieked, flailing wildly. “They keep coming!”

“That's kind of the idea,” Gimli said with a snort.

“Control-alt-delete, maybe?” Boromir suggested wildly. And then his tone changed. “How is that position even possible?”

“You've gotta have really good balance, I think,” Aragorn said. They all tilted their heads to one side, examining the image. “Or Photo Shop?”

“Make it go away!” Pippin repeated, clicking uselessly on the pop-up windows.

Merry heard a rich, deep voice out in the hall. Clearly he wasn't the only one; their panic increased. 

“That's Mr. Saruman!” Frodo hissed, still glued to his seat. “He's probably with Mr. Elrond!”

“Get it off!” Pippin was completely freaking out now.

With surprising alacrity and synchronization, Boromir and Aragorn both vaulted themselves over the desk. Boromir knocked Merry and Pippin out of the way, while Aragorn reached for the cord. 

“And just what do you think you are doing?” Saruman crossed from the door to the desk with surprising speed for a man his age. His face was stormy. Crap. Holy crap.

Merry did his best to help Boromir block the monitor, going as far as to lean against the desk in front of it and try for casual. Aragorn – action, not reaction, Merry was pleased to note – yanked the power cord out of the socket. But it wasn't fast enough – Saruman's face had turned a ghastly pale shade, and his fury was plain.

“Mr. Saruman,” Boromir began. Merry didn't know what he thought he could possibly say to make things better. Evidently Boromir didn't know, either, because he fell silent.

“I think I know what's going on here,” a voice from behind the infuriated librarian offered. Gandalf. Merry was relieved, until he realized how irrational that was. Gandalf was faculty, too. 

“You do?” Pippin asked. He was sitting on the floor, where he must've fallen when Boromir shoved them aside. 

Gandalf stepped into view, his eyes bright with merriment. “Of course, Mr. Took. You and Mr. Brandybuck were working on that assignment I gave you.” He looked at Saruman, his voice falsely placating. “I should have arranged for them to use a student computer, but it was so much trouble.”

“And the other two?” Saruman didn't seem to be buying Gandalf's ridiculous assertion at all. No surprise there.

“Technical difficulties,” Aragorn said smoothly, kicking the loose cord beneath the desk. “Boromir and I are just tech support.”

Gandalf clapped his hands. “See? There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything!”

Saruman whirled around, glaring. “Did you see what was on that screen?” he asked, outraged. “These boys were clearly –”

“Clearly working on a project. A project I asked them to do.” Gandalf narrowed his eyes. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Saruman?”

“I am not pleased with this,” Saruman growled, his expression guarded. Merry suspected he was backing down.

“I will address anything I consider inappropriate,” Gandalf said, pushing Saruman toward his office. “Go get the summer school schedule so we can finish it.”

Saruman reluctantly went to the office, closing the door most of the way behind him. Gandalf turned to the rest of them, his eyebrows raised. 

“I can explain,”Merry blurted out. “We were trying to find information about how successful Aragorn's online campaign has been—”

“Clearly.” Gandalf held up his hands, preventing anyone from saying more. “Mr. Elrond sent me here to dismiss you for the day. It's nearly two-thirty. I suggest you pack up your belongings and get out of here before Mr. Saruman has another opportunity to rail against you.”

They didn't have to be told twice. Merry scampered to his table and shoved his belongings into his backpack while the others did the same.

“Until next week,” Gandalf said, saluting them as they exited the library. “I trust you'll learn to know when to leave well enough alone by then, yes?”

Merry glanced at Pippin, whose expression was serene, now that they'd gotten off scot-free. Probably not.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _Éomer's just that guy ~ it's a metal-phor ~ the dark horse candidate rears his head ~ ♪I wanna be a Dúnadan ranger!♪ ~ Arwen pitched her early acceptance letter to V.U. ~ It's the Three Musketeers & Spock ~ the end of all things_  
> 

It was going to be a hot, muggy day – the temperature was already approaching eighty degrees as Frodo stepped from the cool air of his uncle's car and onto the curb in front of the school. “Last time, huh?” Bilbo said as Frodo turned to say goodbye.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. The last time on a Saturday, anyway. Or at least he certainly hoped so. His ring swung on its chain as he moved, catching Bilbo's gaze as well as the morning sunlight. For a moment it looked like he might say something. Frodo curled his fingers around it and his uncle only smiled weakly.

“Have a good day, Frodo,” he said softly. Frodo nodded, waving halfheartedly as the car drove away. Bilbo wanted him to relax today – no studying, no work. He hadn't even allowed him to bring his backpack. All Frodo had with him this week was a bagged lunch and a novel. It felt strange, like he'd forgotten something.

Everyone was there already, lounging on the steps or sitting on the retaining wall, laughing and talking. Sam had finally gotten over his shyness and was laughing at something Aragorn said, which made Frodo both glad and lonely. Gimli, predictably, was doodling on his jeans, headphones on, but this time he leaned against Legolas, who was playing a game of Pirate Fluxx with Merry, Pippin, and Boromir. Pippin was eating a banana, the rest of the bunch reduced to skins at his feet.

What good friends everyone had become. For a moment Frodo hesitated at the bottom of the steps. He didn't know where he would fit. If he would fit.

“Avast ye, matey!” Boromir called out to him in a ridiculous pirate's brogue, raising a hand to summon him over. “We have time yet 'fore the navy comes down on us, arrrgh. Join us or ye walk the plank!” Merry was already dealing him in. Frodo grinned.

He hadn't yet taken a turn, however, before Mr. Elrond's Volvo pulled into the parking lot. “Elrond,” Merry groaned, gathering up the cards. “So much for going easy on us on our last day.”

Pippin pouted. “And I was hoping to have some kind of adventure at least,” he added. “One last hurrah.”

Frodo wondered if Pippin hadn't already had quite enough hurrahs in his short life, but he wasn't going to say so. Instead, he fell into step beside Sam as they once again followed Mr. Elrond to the library. “You look real worn out,” Sam whispered, his brow furrowing.

“I'm all right.” Frodo wasn't entirely sure about this. He felt miserable. He'd thought that, now that the Sauron stuff was finished, he'd be able to catch up on sleep, but even the past few nights he'd lain awake, his mind racing.

“I think–” But Sam fell silent, gnawing on his cheek with troubled eyes.

And then they were in the library, situating themselves in their familiar seats. Frodo opened his book and stared at the page, unable to concentrate on the words in front of him.

They'd nailed Sauron. It had taken almost all week for the administration to act – frustrating for Sam and Frodo, who were constantly worried that he'd get suspicious and it would fall back on them. But on Thursday afternoon, only two hours left in the school day, he'd been called to the office over the PA. On the one hand, Frodo was relieved beyond measure that he hadn't been called down as well. On the other, he desperately wanted to know what was happening.

When Frodo tracked down Gandalf that afternoon, the old man had assured him that it was all taken care of. No one else had been summoned, so Frodo didn't know if they'd decided to be lenient to the others involved, or if their time was still to come. As for Sauron, he had been expelled, his early acceptance to Valinor University revoked. Or at least that's what Mr. Gandalf had told him.

They'd discovered that this business of his went further back. When Sauron was a freshman, he'd befriended a senior named Morgoth who was in charge of the operation. Once Morgoth graduated, the torch was passed to Sauron. They had discovered that the website had been up for five years, though there was no way of knowing if anything had been going on before that.

Frodo wondered if Sauron had already trained someone to take his place. Knowing that guy, he wouldn't share power with anyone. He probably would've found some way to keep his finger on the pulse of the school even after he graduated.

Apparently Mr. Saruman was in some serious trouble, too. Gandalf hadn't said so, but Sam had seen him carrying a cardboard box to his car, looking “mad enough to spit” as his friend had put it. Frodo wondered if he'd been fired. If so, he hoped that the next librarian was cool. He spent a lot of time in the library – it'd be nice to have a librarian who actually liked students and didn't mind talking about books.

“Frodo?”

He hadn't realized he'd been so lost in thought, but when Frodo looked up from his book, Elrond was gone. Everyone else was crowded around his table, concerned looks on their faces. “What's going on?” he asked, suddenly nervous.

Legolas slid into the chair across from him, reached over to take his hand. “Frodo, this is an intervention,” he said in a kind voice. The others made noises of agreement, nodding and looking serious.

Frodo gaped at them. An intervention? Did those even exist outside of Lifetime movies and cheesy sitcoms? “For what?” he asked, incredulous.

Sam's face screwed up in misery. “The ring,” he explained, his voice quaking. “We need to talk to you about that ring.”

Frodo grasped it in one fist, at first foolishly assuming that they wanted to take it from him, to keep it for themselves. But no – they wanted him to throw it away. Hadn't Sam been after him to get rid of it for weeks now? “It's fine,” he protested. “I hardly even notice it anymore.”

“Then you won't mind throwing it out,” Pippin reasoned.

Aragorn pulled up a chair and sat close to Frodo. “We're worried,” he said, his eyes soft. “You've been so tired, so different lately, that Sam and I were getting scared.”

Scared? Frodo forced a lighthearted laugh. “It was the Sauron stuff,” he insisted. “I was working too hard. That's all over now.”

Gimli shook his head. “You've had days to rest since then,” he pointed out. “And you look worse today than you did last week, which was worse than the week before.”

Frodo felt himself starting to get defensive. “What do you know about it?” he asked, sounding nothing like himself. He looked at Legolas. At Boromir. “What do any of you know if it?” he demanded.

Sam looked guilty. “We told them. Aragorn and me. We told them everything.”

Everything? Not just about the Sauron trap but the ring, too? Sméagol? He didn't know what to say, what to think. He'd thought he could trust Aragorn. And Sam! Sam's disloyalty was the worst. They were supposed to be best friends. Through thick and thin. He guessed not.

Sam saw the look on his face and his own turned to panic. “I had to!” he insisted. “You weren't sleeping! You were barely eating! Even your Uncle Bilbo was freaking out – he called me to find out what was going on with you.”

Bilbo? Frodo's heart lurched painfully. “I suppose you told him, too?” he snarled at Sam.

Merry put a hand on Frodo's arm. “He didn't tell him anything,” his cousin said calmly. “I was with him when Bilbo called.”

“When was the last time you slept for more than a few hours?” Pippin asked, his tone equally calm and careful.

Frodo didn't know. “You make it sound like I'm deliberately staying awake!” he cried. He was talking to everyone, but found himself looking only at Sam. “Like I want to be exhausted and sick and miserable.”

“Don't you?” This time it was Pippin. He looked suddenly unsure. “I mean, haven't you sort of enjoyed obsessing over that ring and Sméagol and everything?” His voice lost power as he spoke, the last part coming out almost a mumble, “You're wearing it around your neck, for goodness' sake.”

“No one thinks you're doing this on purpose,” Aragorn broke in, casting a stern look toward Pippin. “But we all think you need to let it go. Sméagol got himself thrown into Mirkwood by _trying to kill you._ It's not your fault. It's not even a little bit your fault.”

“But,” Frodo began helplessly. He was angry and confused. “But I stole it. It obviously meant a lot to him and I stole it.”

Gimli stepped forward, shaking his head. “It probably meant a lot to him because he stole it himself from someone else. It's not like Sméagol had the cleanest track record. He's probably had as many detentions in the last three years as I have, and for a hell of a lot more than just smoking.”

“And don't forget what happened to Déagol Riverfolk last year,” Boromir added. When Pippin cocked his head curiously, he explained. “We were on a field trip for biology and those two somehow got separated from the rest of the group. Later, Déagol was found lying half-in the creek bed, his head smashed by a rock. I saw them taking him out by helicopter.” He shuddered. “The worst of it was that Sméagol was the only witness.”

“Did he do it?” Frodo asked in a whisper. He'd heard the story before, but never from someone who was actually there.

Boromir shook his head. “He claimed that Déagol fell; stuck to that story. The cops couldn't find any evidence either way. No one really knows, but it's always looked pretty bad to me.”

“I heard that Déagol's had to stay in the House of Healing ever since,” Aragorn said soberly.

Frodo's stomach churned. Everyone had said that Sméagol had tried to kill him, but he'd refused to believe it. This, though; the hadn't considered this. If what they were saying was true, it meant that he was capable of anything. Frodo moved one hand to his throat and looked at Sam, who watched him with pained eyes.

“I can't keep the ring,” he said numbly. “But I don't know what to do with it.”

“Here,” Pippin said, after a long pause. He held a small waste basket in his hands. “Just toss it.”

That meant it would be sitting in the trash can until the custodian cleaned the library on Monday afternoon. Which meant he could change his mind and take it back. Frodo didn't quite understand his compulsion to wear this ring, why he felt it was his burden to carry, but he knew that he'd likely grab it back when no one was looking.

“That's not enough,” Sam said firmly.

“So we destroy it,” Aragorn suggested.

“How?” Boromir asked. “Running it over with my Jeep?”

“We can take it to the train tracks,” Merry suggested. “Flatten it out so no one can wear it.”

Before anyone could consider the merits of Merry's – moderately illegal – idea, the library door slammed open, bouncing against the wall. A familiar blond head appeared and Frodo felt a pang of irritation.

“Hey, losers!” Éomer called out jovially.

“What are you doing here?” Legolas asked sharply.

“School work,” he replied, displaying the binder he held in one hand. “I'm putting some last-minute articles together for the yearbook, and I need to talk to Glóinsson. And I knew this would be the place to find him.”

Frodo glanced nervously at Legolas, whose mouth was twisted into some kind of defensive sneer; this clearly wasn't the answer he'd expected. The last thing they needed was another physical altercation between these two.

“What's up?” Gimli asked. His tone was cheerful and friendly – deflating Legolas's animosity in a moment.

“Your little art contest,” Éomer began, “We want to feature your accomplishment.”

Aragorn snorted and hid his smile behind his hand. Frodo felt his own mood lighten a bit. Éomer was good for that, at least, with his oblivious rudeness.

“Wait,” Merry said, frowning. “You won and didn't tell us?”

Gimli looked sheepish. “Just found out yesterday. Haven't really gotten around to sharing, since we had other things to talk about.”

“Won first by a landslide, from everything Gim told me,” Legolas said proudly. “First junior to do so in at least ten years.”

Boromir clapped, while Pippin and Sam cheered; Gimli's face reddened.

“So, yeah, hurray and all that,” Éomer said, waving a hand to move the conversation along. “I've gotta write a 400-word article about you and your sculpture, so I have a few questions. Also, we need a picture of you next to it. Wanna take it now?”

“I want to go, too!” Pippin said. “Can we come?”

Éomer shrugged. “No teacher here to tell you not to.”

Frodo felt Sam stiffen next to him. “We really shouldn't, though.”

“No one's gonna know,” Boromir said. “Live a little, Samwise Gamgee!”

They moved quickly and quietly, not pressing their luck. Frodo seemed to be the only one who noticed that Sam hung back, still keeping one foot in the library and holding the door open. The others were busy gazing at the strange metal sculpture just outside – it had been there in when they came in, but now that it was Gimli's it held fascination for them all.

It was abstract – metal sheets and bits of hardware corroded and rusted to different degrees, roughly pieced together to form, what? A boat? Frodo looked more carefully. It was definitely a boat, two figures inside. One had eyes – large, round, and somehow made purple with the streaking effect of an unknown chemical, dark glass disks serving as pupils. The other had what looked to be curling whiskers made of twisted copper wires oxidized a bright green.

Éomer snapped a couple of quick photos on the digital camera he'd been wearing around his neck, then turned to his list of questions. “So, what's it supposed to be exactly?”

Gimli's frown looked dangerous, so Frodo jumped in. “It's _The Owl and the Pussycat_. Right, Gimli?”

Gimli blinked, startled out of his glower. “Good eye,” he said, nodding at Frodo. “I made this for the Treasures of Erebor Youth Center. They're putting together a display of art based on nursery rhymes.”

“Ah, so the bad boy does good for the community!” Éomer said with a grin, jotting something down in his notebook. “That's a good angle.”

“If you want to look at it that way.” The glower was back.

“And why metal?”

“Because I hadn't done it yet.” At Éomer's sigh, he continued. “I thought it would be cool to work in the metal shop and do some things with oxidization. Plus this kind of abstract metal-work is becoming more popular in the art world, as well as the world of commercial art – so I thought it was only fair to give it a try.” As he spoke, his face changed, lit up. This was a rarely-seen side to Gimli, even for Frodo, who would say he knew the guy pretty well.

“The metal shop!” Sam cried out suddenly, surging forward from the doorway. He grabbed Frodo's shoulder and gave him an excited shake. “We could melt it down in the metal shop!”

They all looked at Sam with wide eyes and Frodo had to hold back a nervous giggle. “Sam,” he said, just enough friendly warning in his voice. It was a good idea – he knew it was because of the panic that welled up in his stomach – but surely this wasn't the best moment?

Sam clamped his mouth shut, his face going red. He looked awkwardly toward Éomer, as though waiting to hear his next question for Gimli.

“Dude, this just won a huge prize,” Éomer said, bewildered.

“Excellent point,” Aragorn said, casting a mock-stern glare at Sam. Merry and Pippin choked, both trying to hold back laughs. “Why don't we just leave you guys to work this out?” he suggested. He nodded toward Éomer and Gimli, ushering the rest of them – except Legolas, who stayed close to Gimli's side, Frodo noticed – back into the library.

Aragorn shut the door behind them, closing Éomer off from their conversation. “You, my friend,” he said, towering over Sam, “are a genius!”

“All we have to do is find a way to get you guys into the metal shop, and you can take a blow torch to the ring!” Merry said, excitement making his voice squeaky. “We can use the same trusty plan as our food heist!”

“Problem,” Boromir said, raising his hand. “The school is crawling with people today. Both of the gates were completely up when we came in today. There's at least six cars in the teachers' lot, and obviously if Éomer's here doing yearbook work, there's gonna be a few more.”

Frodo couldn't imagine any scenario where Éomer Éadig was the only guy to show up to do school work. “The shop has both internal and external doors,” he said thoughtfully. “If I can get –”

“We,” Sam said firmly. “You're not doing this alone.”

“If we can get to the door on the outside, we won't have to go near the offices,” Frodo said. The school was a giant L-shape, with the teacher's parking lot in the crook of the L. The metal shop was at the end of the long stroke, the library in the middle of the short one. If they could sneak out through the far entrance of the building, they could make their way around outside and cut through the teacher's lot – then enter the shop through the external door. No one would bother to take note of a lone kid – or even two – outside on a Saturday, would they?

“It won't be unlocked, though,” Frodo continued with a frown, realizing his mistake. “And I don't think even Gimli, filled with useful skills as he is, can pick an external lock.”

“So we have someone set it up,” Boromir suggested. “Someone will have to take a chance and go down to metal shop – through the school – and unlock that door for you.”

“Isn't that redundant?” Merry asked, concerned. “If someone's chancing the halls anyway, then shouldn't Frodo just go?”

“No,” Aragorn said, his voice firm and decided. “It is redundant, but I think it's necessary. Any one of us could get caught and it doesn't matter, we're back at the start again. But if Frodo gets caught, he misses his chance to destroy the ring.”

“I don't want anyone getting caught!” Frodo protested. This was his own problem to deal with. They were tangled up in it enough just by knowing. He knew he couldn't shake Sam's tenacity, but he refused to let anyone else get into trouble for him.

“All we have to do is come up with a good reason for being down there,” Boromir reasoned. “I can do it. I can tell them I left my cleats in the locker room and I need them for practice tomorrow.”

“No, let me,” Aragorn said. “This is my last detention.”

Boromir shook his head stubbornly. “We don't know the election outcome yet. You can't risk this.”

Frodo agreed – it was true. Even though Sauron had been expelled, there was the still the possibility that Imrahil Prince could win. He was something of a long shot, having only come to MTHS in the second half of his junior year, but he was smart and well-liked, so anything was possible. Mr. Elrond had informed the candidates that, in the case that no one won by a simple majority, they would have a run-off election in the fall. The last thing any of them wanted was for Aragorn to get booted, and Imrahil ending up winning by default.

“So it's settled,” Boromir said. “At lunch I'll ask Elrond if I can run down to the gym, and I'll sneak over to the metal shop to prop open the outside door.”

“Don't prop it open!” Pippin cried. “Use paper and tape, like Gimli did when we opened the attendance office. That way no one walking outside will notice.”

At that moment Legolas and Gimli returned, Éomer following closely behind them. “One more thing,” he said, and they turned back to him. “You guys were kind of the big deal at prom, and we have some really good pics of you two dancing. Would you be okay with us featuring that in the yearbook?” He fidgeted with his camera, his blue eyes lowered. Almost shy.

They exchanged an eyebrow-raised glance, and for a moment Frodo was sure they'd say no. But then the corner of Legolas's mouth turned upward slightly, and Gimli shrugged. “That's cool,” they said in unison.

“Sweet! Thanks, guys!” Éomer bumped fists with Gimli and nodded at Legolas, then darted out of the room.

“That guy,” Boromir said, shaking his head. “I don't even know.”

^^^^

Boromir spent the remainder of the morning with his head buried in a text book. No one was talking – Elrond had, for some inexplicable reason, decided that this would be a good day to stick around the library. He showed up only moments after Éomer left, so no one was even able to let Gimli and Legolas know that a plan had been formulated. Boromir was more worried about the fact that no one was able to do anything to keep Frodo distracted. The little guy was a mess, that much was clear to everyone. As soon as Boromir had volunteered himself to unlock the door, Frodo's face scrunched up with concern. He obviously didn't want anyone going through trouble for him.

He was kind of like Faramir, in that regard. 

What would Faramir say about this? And about Boromir's role in it? He'd be amused by the adventure, but he'd also frown in the way Sam Gamgee did – as though he was certain there was a better way to go about it, if he could just have a bit more time to figure it out. He'd want to trust someone else with it – someone grown up. As though explaining the situation to a trustworthy adult would get them what they wanted. But no one – not even Mr. Gandalf – would help them destroy someone else's property. Even if it belonged to a creep like Sméagol. 

“You're going to be coming back empty-handed,” Merry whispered. “Do you have a story ready for that?”

Boromir nodded. “I'll just say they weren't there after all. That I must have left them in my car or at home.”

“Not bad,” Merry said. “You almost sound casual enough to believe.”

Boromir grimaced. He was actually crap at lying – it was something he'd never been good at, and usually he took pride in that. He wasn't the sort for sneaking around or breaking rules, and yet here he was in his fifth detention in six weeks. It didn't take a rocket scientist figure out what had changed in his life. His father was pressuring him so much that he was bound to crack sooner or later. Not that this was cracking. No, Boromir knew he was a long way yet from that. This was only letting off steam, like a volcano not yet ready to erupt. It might be a long time yet – if ever – before he really blew his top.

He just hoped that Faramir understood that he was willing to screw things up if it meant taking the heat off of his brother. Their dad had never been close to Faramir, and over the last year it had gotten even worse – nothing the kid did was ever good enough for the old man, though any idiot could see that he was better than Boromir in almost every way. And poor Faramir dealt with it all by trying that much harder to be perfect.

Well, perfect doesn't exist, Boromir thought as he dropped his text book into his bag. That's what he was trying to tell his little brother, though he knew he was choosing the most oblique, roundabout way of saying so.

Elrond looked up just as the lunch bell rang; his flinch matched the rest of theirs. “Feel free to talk quietly amongst yourselves while you eat,” he said, his voice as stiff as ever. 

Showtime. Boromir raised his hand. “Mr. Elrond, can I run down to the locker room real quick? I think I might've left my cleats there, and I need them for practice this afternoon.”

His request was met with a thoughtful frown. “Make it quick,” he answered. So far, so good. 

“Thanks,” Boromir said, forcing himself to look Elrond in the eye before he left the library.

The halls were still quiet – even worse than after school – but occasionally he heard a conversation between teachers or students. He walked as casually as he could, taking long strides and jamming his fists into his pockets. It covered the bulk from the roll of tape he'd swiped from Mr. Saruman's desk when the plan was first devised. He didn't think anyone saw him, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

All along the walls, between groupings of lockers, were Sauron's posters. They were glossy – professionally printed – and a lot of them had photographs: Sauron smiling and handsome and reassuring. It had been a shock to most of the student body when the rumors began flying. Cheating was a big deal in any circumstance, but for a guy like Sauron, whose reputation was built on good grades and being smart, it was practically a death sentence. Apparently, Tom Bombadil had been working as an office assistant when it all went down; he certainly hadn't hesitated to repeat everything he'd overheard.

And then the text had come through from Strider: _Frodo pulled it off. He and Sam are the ones who nabbed Sauron. Gotta give the guys credit – didn't think it could be done._

No, Boromir wouldn't have thought that it would take two quiet sophomores to uncover what he'd always suspected. And never knew how to begin to fight.

He reached out and yanked one of the posters down from the wall, shoving it into a trash can in the lobby as he rounded the corner to the longer corridor. And then he paused, looking at the trophy case.

Minas Tirith High School had been around for ages, but they kept the trophies up to date. Most of the ones in the case were from the last five years or so, and almost every boys' team represented was one he'd played on. His personal trophies were at home – on display, of course – but these were the ones that actually meant something to him. There was something about teamwork that always brought out the best in him. He just did better with his friends at his back, working for the same cause.

After what had gone down at the assembly, there had been serious talk about him not being allowed to play any of the fall sports. That would've meant a summer without practice, without hanging out with the guys on the team. He had his non-school athletics, of course, but it still wouldn't have been the same.

Would it have been worth it? He thought of the flummoxed outrage on his father's face when he'd come barreling into Mr. Elrond's office. Yeah – definitely worth it.

He shook his head, then continued on his way. He had almost reached the doors at the far end of the hall when he glanced over his shoulder. All clear. Instead of ducking left, into the gymnasium, he turned to the right. Straight into the wood and metal shop.

He'd never actually been in the shop room before. His electives – carefully chosen by his father – had always had distinct, college-prep purposes. Foreign language. Computer science. This room was too hands-on, too blue collar. Everything smelled burnt or rusty in here, save the earthy scent of the planks of wood that were piled along one wall. He lingered over the tables, scarred with years of use, initials and designs carved into some of the corners. A row of metal cubbies along the back wall held goggles and gloves, each cube labeled with a name written on a ragged piece of masking tape.

Boromir was momentarily surprised to see Sauron's name on one of them – written in all caps with a thick black marker. He stood on tiptoe to look into the cubby. It was neat – much tidier than the others nearby – but the tools – Sauron's personal set, Boromir assumed – were much more worn. Like he used them a lot. It was weird, thinking of the brainy, political Sauron as someone who used his hands to craft things. As someone who willingly got dirty. For a moment he wondered. What kind of art did Sauron make here? Who was he while he hammered and welded? The same smiling jackass who made that strategically perfect campaign speech? It was like he was two different people; it didn't make sense.

Remembering why he was there, Boromir walked over to the external door. Closing his eyes and praying that it wasn't alarmed, he pushed it open. A wave of humid heat washed over him, the glaring sunshine making him blink. Suddenly feeling very exposed, he yanked the roll of tape and a folded sheet of notebook paper from his pockets. He used it just as Merry had instructed, glad to let the door fall closed, the dimness settling over him again. He nudged the door with his foot a couple of times, just to be sure it would open easily. Perfect.

But where were the blowtorches? He imagined Frodo and Sam getting all the way down here, only to find their task impossible. He did a quick circle around the work tables before he found himself in front of a door labeled “kiln room”. Even better.

A cabinet on the wall next to the door had tongs and other equipment, so he grabbed some and laid them out on a shelf just inside the kiln room. He made a mental note to let Frodo – and Sam, because he knew there was no way Sam would let him do it alone – know they were there just as he turned to head back to the hallway.

Mr. Elrond stood in the doorway, his face pale with anger. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

For a moment Boromir wondered if he should run – just take off and keep going. There was no way an old guy like Elrond could keep up. 

But running would only stall the inevitable, since Monday morning he'd be back in Elrond's office anyway, listening to his dad yell at the both of them.

“Mr. O'Gondor,” Elrond said sternly, looking like the only thing keeping him from grabbing him by the collar were rules against roughing up students. “Fool me once, shame on you.” He gestured very sternly for Boromir to head down to the office. 

“I-I thought I heard something in there,” Boromir said. “I was just checking it out.” He could hear the desperation in his voice and it made him sick to his stomach. He was such a crap liar.

“We can discuss that in my office,” Mr. Elrond said tightly. “I'm sure your father will love to hear all about it.”

Ice ran through Boromir's veins. “Seriously?” he asked weakly. “I was just–”

“Save it!” the vice principal barked. He strode down the hallway, trusting Boromir to keep at his heels. It was hard to do – not only were Elrond's strides long and quick, but the athlete was finding that his own legs felt like they were made of rubber. This wasn't like that first time, when he was so pissed off for being sent down to the office that he didn't care he was getting detention. Or the second – high on adrenaline and prepared for every word that came out of Mr. Elrond's mouth. This time he'd really thought he'd get away with it. He hadn't been anticipating the stomach-deep panic. Or the consequences.

His dad was going freak out. The jeep was gone, for sure. And baseball camp – his father had been trying to steer him away from baseball and toward college football, so this would be the perfect excuse to nix that. But, depending on what the school decided, he might not get to play football his senior year – so much for a place on a college team.

Freak out didn't even begin to cover it. His father was going to murder him.

Boromir felt his lips twist into a wry smile. After this, Faramir was going to look like frickin' mithril. At least there was that.

^^^^

Mr. Elrond wasn't leaving. Pippin glanced toward the librarian's desk, where the tall man was reading a magazine and eating vending-machine chips. Why that day, of all days, did he suddenly feel like he needed to be so attentive that he should stay through lunch time?

“So does the grant money have to be used for art?” Merry was asking Gimli. They were all crowded around two tables for lunch, food and conversation passing between them. “Or can you buy a new car or something?”

Gimli smiled – he'd been smiley all day – and put down his bottle of strawberry Nesquik. “It's definitely for art, but that's kind of a broad classification. I could pay for college, for example, or I could set up a studio somewhere – this money would cover the rent and utilities for a few years, as well as the raw materials. Or, if I was really interested in Númenorean friezes, for example, I could use it to make a pilgrimage to the north.”

Pippin was impressed. Gimli had won a serious prize here, and he was only a kid. “Are you going to go to art school, then?” he asked.

“Nah.” he shook his head. He lowered his voice for the next bit, “I'd really like to drop out of school and get started right away in Minas Ithil,” he confessed, “but my parents have flat-out forbidden it.”

“You're eighteen,” Merry urged. “What's stopping you?”

“Maybe he'd rather not disappoint them,” Frodo cut in quietly. Pippin wondered how the world had gone so wrong that a guy like Frodo Baggins had to worry about disappointing people.

“Pretty much.” Gimli shrugged sheepishly. “My parents are cool. And who knows? By the time I graduate, I might want something else altogether, and then I'll be glad I waited. Ms. Galadriel said she might be able to pull some strings to get an admissions interview at Valinor U, though I doubt I'll ever want that.”

“Seriously?” Legolas looked up from his standard lunch of Twinkies and Yoo-hoo. “I got into VU!”

Gimli blinked. “I thought you were going to Minas Ithil with Tauriel,” he said. Pippin didn't miss the surprise in his voice – surprise and a touch of dismay.

“I am,” Legolas confirmed. “I'm gonna use my dad's money to keep her in style while she tries to make it big on the stage.” Pippin had heard that she was the entertainment triple threat – singer, dancer, and actor. It was pretty cool that Legolas's dad was okay with him helping her like that. “But that's only for one year. Originally, I was gonna use the time to convince my dad to let me go to Lórien instead, but, yeah. Not so much anymore.”

Frodo swallowed a bite of apple. “So Valinor is holding your place?” he asked.

“Gap years are pretty common,” Legolas said, nodding. “We could always go together.” Pippin wondered if he was the only one who noticed Gimli turning pink.

“Isn’t Valinor where you’re hoping to go?” he asked Frodo. Everyone knew it was the most prestigious school in all of Arda.

Frodo nodded. “It’s worth a try, at least.” His eyes weren’t on them, though. Pippin and the others followed his gaze across the room, where Mr. Elrond had moved over to the table he'd been sharing with Boromir. He was idly flipping through Pippin’s history book, but then he froze.

“Shit,” Aragorn swore under his breath.

Elrond’s eyes were very focused on something in Boromir’s gym bag. His open gym bag. Pippin looked down at the remains of his protein bar wrapper, then back up at Elrond. Had it been zipped when he'd gotten into it? He didn't know. But if so, he'd clearly forgotten to zip it shut. He closed his eyes and willed the man to look away. _These aren't the droids you're looking for._

“Why,” Mr. Elrond began, his voice as cold as ice, “would Mr. O’Gondor be looking for his cleats when they are right here in this bag?” He didn't seem to be asking anyone in particular, but his gaze swept over all of them. Like he didn't doubt for a moment that, whatever Boromir was up to, it involved them too.

“Oh no.” Pippin felt sick to his stomach.

“Maybe those are the wrong ones,” Aragorn suggested, his tone light enough to sound plausibly casual. Almost. “Or old ones. Or…”

He trailed off, because Mr. Elrond turned on his heel and left the library. Quickly.

“We’re screwed,” Merry said at once, his usual optimism gone. “Do you think Boromir had time to open the door?”

“What do you mean?” Legolas asked.

Aragorn grimaced. “While you guys were out with Éomer, Boromir offered to open the external door of the metal shop so Frodo can get to it from the outside.” He looked to Sam and Frodo. “You two should leave now, while he’s distracted. Go!”

Frodo and Sam scrambled to neaten up their lunch messes, but Merry shooed them away. “I've got this,” he told them.

Sam grabbed his overstuffed backpack. “You never know what might come in handy,” he said by way of explanation when Aragorn tried to stop him. 

“Go,” Aragorn urged again, and they obeyed. “Hurry. But be careful.” 

At the door, Frodo looked back at them once more, his face filled with fear. “Thank you,” he said. “And tell Boromir—”

“You’ll tell him yourself when it’s all over,” Merry insisted, back to being the confident dungeon master. He jumped up and put his hand between Frodo's shoulder blades and pushed. “Go do your thing first.”

They scampered out, and the library was momentarily silent. Pippin could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't even afraid for himself, but the idea of Sam and Frodo getting caught – especially now that Boromir was almost certainly in trouble – was awful.

“We need a lookout,” Legolas said, standing up at the same moment to volunteer himself. He crossed over to the door and stepped out stealthily.

“Boromir’s dead meat.” Gimli’s voice was gruff and angry. “You should’ve let me go instead.” 

“You or Boromir – it doesn't make much difference,” Merry countered. “Getting caught away from detention is pretty bad no matter what.”

“They’re going to see his behavior as an escalating problem,” Gimli explained, exasperated. “He's never been in trouble until lately, but me? They expect this kind of stuff from me, and wouldn’t think anything of it.”

“He needed to do it,” Pippin said softly. “He’s having problems with his dad, and maybe this is the only way to deal with them.” Boromir hadn’t dumped it all on him, but Pippin had picked plenty up over the weeks of hanging out. Denethor O’Gondor was never satisfied with Faramir, and Boromir hated his inability to change things. He was tired of being held up as the shining example of what a son should be while he truly believed that Faramir was the better person. Now, maybe he was trying to prove it.

“Mr. Gandalf will speak up for him,” Aragorn said, his expression serious. “Boromir’s mom died last summer, and he's had a really tough time with it.”

“What happened?” Merry asked, his eyes wide. Pippin knew that Merry had never known anyone who died. The closest he'd come was when a character he'd particularly loved was killed in a D&D campaign.

“They were camping – the whole family – in Cirith Ungol. I heard that she was bitten by a venomous spider and was gone in a matter of hours. Since then, I think Boromir’s changed. He’s quicker to anger, and he lashes out more than he ever did before. And his dad, well, he’s grown more detached from their lives.”

Gimli nodded his agreement. “He's definitely seemed to be under a lot of pressure this year,” he added. “Last year he seemed to just – I don't know – enjoy it more.” Pippin often forgot that those three were in the same class – they seemed so different from one another.

“Well, if Mr. Elrond catches him—”

“When, Pippin, not if,” Gimli said. “No one gets away from Elrond.”

“When Mr. Elrond catches him,” Pippin corrected, “he’s not going to be able to get out of it. His dad’s going to flip.”

“Maybe that’s what he needs to get his dad’s attention,” Merry added. 

“It’ll get the kind of attention he wants, at least,” Pippin said, and he told them about Faramir, about how Denethor sometimes didn't even listen to his younger son speak, and how Boromir was sick of it.

A sharp whistle drew their attention to the door. Legolas stood there, urging them forward. “Elrond's got Boromir and they just went into the office. Judging by their faces, it's really bad. But, on the plus side, Sam and Frodo made it outside without anyone noticing.”

“So what now?” Gimli asked.

Merry shrugged. “We wait.”

Wait? Something was tugging at the edges of Pippin's awareness. Something grim.

“We should keep watching,” Legolas suggested. “Just in case someone comes this way. And we should have an excuse ready. For Frodo and Sam, I mean.” He poked his head back outside and gave them a thumbs up.

“They're going to be all riled up and suspicious now,” Merry pointed out. “I don't think there's an excuse in the world that would work today.”

Gimli shook his head. “I don't think they'll come back,” he said. “I've been in plenty of detentions, and when things go wrong, it's all hands on deck in the offices. The rest of us are basically abandoned.”

And suddenly Pippin realized what was bugging him. “Boromir's bag,” he cried suddenly. “Mr. Elrond didn't take it. It's his evidence, so he'll be back for it for sure.”

“Oh, hell.” Aragorn dropped his head into this hands.

For a long minute no one said anything. Then Legolas popped his head back inside. “Gandalf is in the principal's office with Elrond and Boromir,” he reported.

“Maybe Mr. Gandalf will be the one to come after the bag?” Merry asked hopefully.

Aragorn shook his head. “I don't think even Gandalf could pretend not to notice that two students are missing.”

And then Pippin made up his mind. “I'm going to the bathroom,” he announced.

Gimli raised his eyebrows. “That should help.”

“I'm serious,” Pippin insisted. “I can stand guard there – act like I'm getting a drink of water or something. I'll stall them by saying that Sam and Frodo are in the bathroom.”

Aragorn shook his head. He looked troubled. “Boromir's already in pretty deep. If they see you out there, they'll know we're all up to something together. Better to wait here, so you don't get in trouble, too.” He stood up and paced. “I just don't want anyone else getting in trouble.”

“And when they realize that Frodo and Sam are gone?” Pippin demanded. “Can you even _imagine_ what kind of trouble they'd be in for using a blowtorch while they're supposed to be sitting detention?”

“So our choices are to sit tight and let Sam and Frodo get caught or do something and prove that we're trying to cover for them? Sounds grim,” Merry said. “But I guess it's all for one, one for all, huh?” He grinned.

The discussion lasted way longer than Pippin expected. There were arguments for – Gimli, and Merry – and arguments against – Aragorn – and finally Legolas chimed in. “If Frodo and Samwise don't get back here without getting caught, we're all implicated anyway. Gandalf knows we're thick as thieves in here. So it makes a lot of sense for Pippin to risk his own neck – the good of the many verses the good of the few, and all that.”

“But does it have to be Pippin?” Aragorn asked, frustrated.

“You could make that argument about any one of us!” Pippin cried, getting angry. He liked Aragorn, really he did, but he was sick of everyone trying to play big brother to him. “Don't try to protect me because I'm younger than you! I'm in here for doing way worse than any of you, apart from Merry. Did you know that we stole enough food for it to count as a felony? My parents talked the school out of pressing charges.” He watched their expressions change – Aragorn's face went slack and dumbfounded; Gimli's eyes widened. 

“And guess what,” Pippin continued. “I wasn't even grounded. Not because my parents are cool. Not because they can't bear to punish me. No – I wasn't punished because _it never occurred to them._ They buy me anything I want and they pay to get me out of trouble, but they don't care enough to notice me otherwise. So we'd all be better off letting me unleash my naturally delinquent tendencies and do what I want, because Boromir's not the only one with daddy issues!”

His outburst silenced everyone in the room, and only moments later, Pippin was free, Legolas holding the door for him as he slipped out into the hall.

He strolled down the hallway as casually as he could manage, but his mind was reeling. If Elrond had any reason at all to suspect that they were up to something, the bathroom excuse was definitely not enough to save Frodo and Sam. He knew they could trust Boromir not to say anything, but Elrond and Gandalf were sharp. They knew them all pretty well by now.

He needed to think of a distraction. A better lie. He took a long drink of water, trying to line up all of his options in his head. Other than causing a ruckus himself, he couldn't think of a single thing. And he really, really didn't want to bring their wrath down on him. Half the fun of this sort of thing was getting one over on the grown-ups, after all.

But Frodo. Frodo was cracking. He had to destroy that ring, had to get away with it, too. 

Suddenly the office door opened, and Pippin ducked into the doorway of the girls' room, because it was closest. He peeked out. It was Gandalf. Better than Elrond, but not much – especially since he was turning toward the library. 

Pippin had to move quickly. He darted across the hall right behind the old guidance counselor, counting on both his cat-quiet footsteps and Gandalf's extreme old age to keep him from being caught. His fingers flew over the key pad to the nurse's office door. 9-3-9-1 – the date of the plague, upside down – and he ducked inside. 

He perched on the stool in the announcement room, frantically scanning the panel for a way to turn it on. His eyes fell on a paper – Monday's announcements, it looked like. A name jumped out at him and he grinned.

It turned out that the switch was red – he wondered why he hadn't seen it immediately. As soon as he flipped it, a sound – not quite _there_ enough to be a hum, but almost – filled the small room. Pippin took a deep breath and leaned toward the microphone. “We're gonna be the Eagles!” he cried into it, figuring he could kill two birds with one stone here. “Long live President Elessar! The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!”

Then he switched the power off and waited. His hands were shaking and the blood was rushing in his ears. He was terrified, but terrified had never, ever felt as great as it did right then. He swiveled the stool around when the door banged open.

“Peregrin Took!” Gandalf's voice was a roar, his face red and furious.

Pippin hopped from the stool and allowed himself to be dragged to the office.

^^^^

It had rained the night before, making the grass soggy with mud. Sam didn't mind – he was used to mud and dirt – but Frodo clearly didn't like it. He slowed down as soon as they hit the grass, lifting his feet in a kind of silent, disgusted protest. 

“We gotta keep going,” Sam said, remembering the urgency in Aragorn's voice, the look of concern on Legolas's face as he raised his hand in a final farewell before they darted out the door. “Unless you want me to take it for you?” Even as he said it, he hoped Frodo would say no. It made him feel pretty lousy.

His friend shook his head. “It's mine to deal with,” he insisted, a hand fisted around the stupid little thing.

“Then let's go,” Sam said, slogging forward. He tried to lead Frodo through places where the grass was thicker, avoiding the worst of the mud. It was hot, too, and the dampness made the air humid and miserable. Sam's shirt was already sticking to his body; he tugged at it, grimacing.

He hated that ring. Sam didn't like to say he hated anything, but he was happy to make exceptions for Sméagol and his ring. He knew Frodo was riddled with guilt over the whole thing, but Sam was glad that the little sneak was in Mirkwood. Frodo hadn't seen the look on his face when he'd wrapped his hands around his throat, or else he wouldn't have wasted even a minute thinking that it was any kind of misunderstanding.

Sméagol had been planning to kill him. There wasn't even a sliver of doubt in Sam's mind about that. And he didn't think it was about the ring – not anymore. He thought Sméagol would strangle Frodo for the sheer joy of it.

“Who's that?” Frodo's voice was scared. He nodded toward the street, where a girl watched them through the chain-link fences that surrounded the tennis courts. 

Sam squinted. He didn't recognize her. “She looks young. Probably some kid out playing.” He noticed that Frodo didn't relax. “Just walk casually,” he advised. “Let's not give her anything to remember about us.”

But it was hard to be casual when you were mucking through mud that splashed up to your ankles. Still, they tried. The teachers' parking lot was only a little farther. Boromir had underestimated the amount of cars there – instead of six, it was more like fourteen. Sam really, really hoped that one of them didn't belong to Mr. Melkor, the shop teacher.

“I think things may be okay with Rosie Cotton after all,” he said, just to make conversation.

“That's good,” Frodo said automatically. 

Sam could tell he was barely hearing him, but the talking might've been as much for him as Frodo, so he continued. “I mean, we haven't really talked or anything, but she smiled at me in the hall on Wednesday, and she let me borrow her pen in history class yesterday. I didn't even have to ask – she just noticed I'd lost mine and gave me one.”

Frodo looked at him curiously, for a moment shaking off whatever was bothering him. He smiled impishly. “You really should just ask her out, Sam,” he urged.

Sam felt himself blush all the way up to his ears. “Oh, I don't know about that,” he hedged. It was a familiar suggestion – Frodo, along with Merry and Pippin, had been trying to get him to get his nerve up all year – but each time it made him feel as though it were completely new to him. He looked at his feet and was dismayed to note that the mud had covered the tops of his shoes now, splattering onto his socks and bare legs. Frodo's weren't any better.

But then his shoes hit blacktop, and they left the sucking mud behind. “So we just cut through?” Frodo asked uncertainly.

There was something about the teachers' lot that felt forbidden, even when they weren't sneaking around. Cars were the link to a whole life for their teachers – a life away from school, where they could have families and relationships. Where they could drink alcohol or ride roller coasters or wear tiny swimsuits to the beach – things that you never want to imagine teachers doing. Just being in the parking lot made Sam very uncomfortable.

They began to pick their way through the lot, weaving between cars and sometimes doubling back to avoid the huge puddles that riddled the poorly-paved ground. It was slow going, and Sam realized that they had to move more quickly. They had no idea how much trouble Boromir was in, or whether or not Elrond might end up coming back into the library for something.

Suddenly a movement across the lot caught his eye. “Get down!” he hissed at Frodo, flinging himself into a crouch and yanking his friend down with him. 

Water splashed around them as Frodo fell onto his knees in a deep puddle. “Sam!” he cried, dismayed. He struggled to stand, but Sam wouldn't let him. 

“There's a teacher over there,” he explained in a whisper. They heard the distinct clatter of high-heels against the pavement. Only an administrator would wear high heels on a Saturday.

Frodo stopped struggling. Together they peeked through the window of the car they were hiding behind, watching as Ms. Galadriel made her way across the lot. With ease, she picked her way through the puddles, hopping over small ones and skirting the larger, getting closer and closer to where Sam and Frodo hid.

“She's coming this way,” Frodo hissed, panicked.

“We can't freak out,” Sam said, trying for soothing, but sounding frantic. “But I think we should move.” Getting caught by Ms. Galadriel would be better than any other teacher, he suspected, but he didn't want to risk it. There was something about her knowing smiles that made him wary and uncomfortable.

They crept along the side of the car, all the while keeping an ear out for the ever-approaching clip-clip of her shoes. Sam led the way, pulling Frodo with him around to the back of the car. Just in time – she passed by only seconds later.

They waited until her car door slammed shut, and then, feeling okay to move around again, Sam found a small towel in his backpack for Frodo. His friend wiped his wet, muddy legs and blotted up as much water as he could from the hems of his shorts. “Sorry,” Sam mumbled. He shoved the towel into one of the oversized pockets of his cargo shorts – they would need it later, to clean up their shoes a bit before venturing inside. 

Staying low, they crept between the cars, heading slowly in the direction of the shop room door. Sam's backpack was getting heavy and very awkward – it was much too big for continued crouching. Finally, the teacher's car pulled out into the street and disappeared. “Let's run for it,” Frodo suggested.

They were only a few car-lengths from the door, and Sam was about to agree – the sooner they were safely inside, the better. They stood up and were about to bolt, when Sam noticed the door. “No, Frodo!” he hissed, grabbing his friend by the shirt even as he darted forward. “The door!” 

Frodo stopped. “What's wrong with it?” he asked, confused.

“No handle,” Sam said, gesturing toward it. He sat down on a concrete parking space divider, comfortingly out of sight of the windows. He slid his pack from his back. “We have to figure out a way to open it before we're standing out there for anyone to see.”

Frodo dropped down next to him. “Oh,” he said, craning his neck to look at the door. “It must be an emergency exit, in case anything happens in shop.” Sam could easily imagine a dozen things that might make a class have to evacuate that particular room.

Sam rummaged through his things. In addition to his lunch dishes, a Swiss Army knife, a spool of twine, and a rubber band ball, he had some of his gardening tools in there. He pulled out a flat hand spade. He thought it might do the trick, assuming it wasn't too thick. If it was – he dug around some more – they might be out of luck. He could try using a CD case or a fork, but he didn't imagine either would make the job easy.

Frodo looked relieved. “You always save the day, Sam,” he said fondly, leaning close enough to bump shoulders and knees.

Sam blushed under the compliment, then his own embarrassment made him flush deeper. “Well, not yet,” he cautioned. He slid the CD and fork into another pocket – so he wouldn't have to fish around for them at the door – and zipped up his bag. “Ready?” 

Frodo nodded.

Spade in hand, Sam darted over the last distance. Frodo leaped over a puddle and tripped on the landing. He caught himself on the black metal door, leaving wet hand prints on the paint. “Here,” Sam said, yanking the towel from his pocket. “Get your feet, too. We don't want to leave a mess.”

While Frodo fumbled with his shoes, Sam jammed the edge of the spade between the door and the frame. It opened slightly, then fell closed again. “I'm glad Boromir got this far,” Frodo said softly. Sam frowned. He hoped the guy wasn't in too much trouble because of them.

After a couple of tries, he managed to lever the door open just enough to jam his fingers between it and the frame. “Got it!” he cried. He pulled the door open and Frodo slipped inside. Sam hurriedly wiped his own feet and shoved the nasty towel back into his pocket.

The door closed behind them, and for a moment Sam blinked at the sudden darkness. He'd never been in the shop room before. It smelled strange, like iron and fire and oil. The tables were set up in rows, metal stools tucked beneath each one. The concrete floor was scarred with decades of wear.

“So where do they keep the blowtorches?” Sam asked.

“I have a better idea,” Frodo said, nodding toward a closed door with “kiln room” stenciled across it. Scrawled under it in red magic marker was the ominous “Cracks of Doom”. He pulled the chain over his head, idly slipping his pinky finger into the gold ring. “I hope it's not locked.”

It wasn't. The door opened into a tiny room – a closet, really – with what must've been the kiln in the middle. It looked more like a spaceship to Sam, a huge round metal thing on four spindly legs. There were metal cubbies and shelves on the wall, unfired pottery taking up about a third of the shelf space. A clipboard hung near the door with a firing schedule. Gimli's name was on it at least four different times.

“It looks safe enough,” Frodo said softly.

That's when Sam's courage buckled. The kiln door was latched shut, some kind of computerized display showing the temperature and time left. It was over two thousand degrees in there. He didn't think it was supposed to be opened mid-bake. They could get seriously hurt. Or burn the school down. At the very least, they'd ruin someone's project. Maybe even Gimli's. 

And Sam had never been terribly lucky with things related to heat or fire – learning to cook, he'd once set the Gaffer's oven mitts ablaze, and then there was the time he singed his hair with Merry's roman candles. For a moment he wished that Frodo didn't have to do things so very completely. It would have been nice if they could've tossed the darned thing into a dumpster and been done with it.

A couple of pairs of heavy gloves, two sets of goggles, and a pair of tongs were laid out on the shelf nearest the kiln. “Boromir,” Frodo breathed, sounding happy and sad at once. He put on the gloves and goggles, then reached for the kiln door.

“Wait!” Sam wasn't ready to face that fire – metaphorically; it was an electric kiln – just yet. “Lemme find a fire extinguisher,” he said. “Just in case.” It wasn't far, mounted on the wall by the door. Sam was glad to see evidence of that kind of foresight. He put his own goggles on and pulled the extinguisher down. “Ready,” he said.

But Frodo didn't move. He held the ring in one hand, the tongs in the other, and didn't move at all. Sam peered at him through the distortion of the goggles. “Frodo?” he asked cautiously.

His friend smiled softly. “I'm okay, Sam,” he said. “I was just thinking about how good you've been to me, all this time. I dragged you into so much terrible stuff these last two months, and you never said a word of complaint. Here you are, supporting me in this insane quest, even.”

Sam blinked at him. “That's what friends are for,” he protested lightly. “Me, Merry, Pippin, Aragorn, we're all here for you. Legolas and Gimli, too. And Boromir. We're all looking out for you.”

Frodo flung his arms around Sam's shoulders, nearly clipping his ear with the tongs. Sam almost dropped the fire extinguisher. “Thank you for being here with me,” Frodo murmured. “Here at the end of it.”

Sam smiled. “This is the end of it,” he assured. He snaked an arm around Frodo's back and tightened the hug. It wasn't something that guys his age ever did, hugs like that. But he liked it.

It couldn't last long, and a moment later Frodo had the kiln open and an angry red light flashed on the control screen. It was hot. Crazy hot. Sam stepped back as far as he could, but that wasn't far at all. Frodo had the ring in the tongs, held it over the open kiln. Sam expected him to drop it, but he hesitated.

“Just get rid of it,” Sam urged. “You'll feel better once it's gone.”

Frodo's lips twisted into a pained grimace. “I like it, Sam,” he said.

Sam just nodded. He waited.

“But I can't be like this anymore,” Frodo continued. Sweat already beaded on his lip, his hair dampening.

“No,” Sam agreed.

And then the voice on the PA made them both jump. “Long live President Elessar!” it yelled. Or rather, Pippin yelled. Sam and Frodo looked at one another, dumbfounded. “The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!”

“He's warning us!” Sam realized. “Something happened!” He fluttered his gloved hands at Frodo, motioning for him to hurry.

Frodo closed his eyes and dropped. And the little circle of gold fell, disappearing into the strange metal contraption. Sam lunged forward and closed the lid. The red light dimmed and went out.

For a moment Frodo looked desperate, but then he laughed. “I guess someone's getting a gold glaze on their pot,” he said, and Sam laughed, too. It felt good to have it over and done with.

Then, as one, they realized that they had to hurry. They tore off their gloves and goggles and tossed them into an empty cubby. “We can't go back outside,” Frodo decided suddenly.

Sam knew he was right. It was too slow. Too dangerous. If they were caught inside the building, there was a possibility – slight though it may be – that they could talk their way out of it. Outside, they were sunk.

Frodo tore the taped paper from the outside door and made sure it latched before they headed out into the hallway. Out there, they tried to look casual, but Sam's heart was racing. They were obviously up to no good. They were covered in mud up to their knees, for goodness' sake. It would take the most oblivious teacher in the world to let them pass.

They made it as far as the auditorium without incident, but they slowed down at the sound of voices in the school's main lobby. “It's Mr. Elrond,” Frodo hissed, leaning against the trophy case. Definitely not the most oblivious teacher. “He's going to destroy us.”

Sam peeked around the corner; Mr. Elrond stood with his back to them, speaking to an older gentleman who wore a grim expression. And Boromir's mouth. And eyes. It was Mr. O'Gondor, certainly, and any doubt was confirmed when Boromir paced into sight. He looked miserable, listening to his father growl about how the school had diminished in quality over the years. 

He glanced up and met Sam's eyes, surprise registering on his face for only a moment. He gave a brief nod, then turned against his father. “Dad, just let it go!” he shouted, yanking Mr. O'Gondor's arm. His father whirled on him, lecturing loudly and emphatically, but at the same time, turning his back to Sam and Frodo. 

“Now,” Sam mouthed, and he and Frodo crept behind the adults. He didn't know how long Boromir was going to be able to keep this up, but Sam didn't look back. He trusted that the raised voices – and Mr. Elrond trying to get a word in edgewise – meant that no one had seen them yet. They rushed down the hall as quickly as they could without making noise, and upon rounding corner into the library alcove, they collapsed against the wall. 

“Almost there,” Frodo said breathlessly. His eyes were wild.

“Come on, Frodo,” Sam urged, reaching for the door handle. “The others are waiting for us.”

^^^^

Aragorn was surprised by how quickly the day had gotten out of hand. It was supposed to have been easy – a little intervention, a little reading. A lot of daydreaming about having Saturdays free to spend with Arwen. But then Frodo wanted to destroy the ring, and then Éomer showed up, and the next thing you know, Boromir was dragged to the office and probably suspended for the rest of the school year.

And now Pippin was doing... well, whatever Pippin wanted to do, apparently.

As soon as he'd left the library, Merry shook his head, looking like the parent of the kid who'd gone bad. “When he gets it into his head to do something, there's no stopping him,” he said, as though he weren't just as stubborn. They were all stubborn, this pack of underclassmen he'd been saddled with.

And now he had to think of a way to make sure that the rest of them – Merry, Gimli, and Legolas, at least – didn't end up in another round of detentions. Or worse. “What can we say when Elrond comes after Boromir's bag?” he asked the others.

Legolas shrugged. “Can't help you there. Every time I sneaked out, I left a body-sized lump of pillows under my blankets,” he said. “I don't know a thing about sneaking around in broad daylight.”

“I don't imagine Pippin's gonna let them get this far,” Gimli added.

But Aragorn wasn't so sure. It seemed to him that any move on Pippin's part would only antagonize Mr. Elrond and make him more likely to come down hard on the rest of them.

“We could always just drop the bag out in the hallway,” Merry joked. “That way, he won't have to come in at all.”

Aragorn shook his head, feeling defeated. He had no idea how to get out of this mess. If he won the election, what kind of student body president was he going to be if he couldn't keep seven other guys in line?

“We're gonna be the Eagles!” It was Pippin's voice. On the PA system. Aragorn bolted upright. Legolas darted out the door.

“What the hell is that kid doing?” Gimli asked, for the first time more shocked than amused.

“Long live President Elessar!” Pippin continued, his voice high and crazed. “The Eagles are coming!”

Legolas came back inside. “Gandalf has Pippin,” he announced breathlessly. “Or, at least he will in a minute. I think he had been heading this way – by the time I saw, he was rushing back toward the offices.”

“This is bad,” Aragorn said, his voice tight. Mr. Elrond was going to suspend all of them. Frodo and Sam would end up getting caught, and he would probably be forbidden from dating Arwen. He felt bad for that last thought – disloyal to his friends. But still.

“It's Gandalf,” Gimli said reasonably, his voice only a bit unsure. “Gandalf likes Pippin – that's why he covered for him last week with the porn-thing. He doesn't want to get us all in more trouble than we're already in because he knows this punishment is bullshit. It's not like sitting in here on a Saturday is going to make me smoke less, or keep Merry from taking food, or keep your hands off of Arwen Undómiel. He sees it the way it really is, and knows that their punishment isn't going to affect us at all as soon as we walk outside.”

Aragorn wasn't completely sure that their punishments meant nothing, since expulsion was always an option. But he did think that maybe there was an element of truth to what Gimli said. Gandalf was a favorite among students because he was so much more in touch with kids than the rest of the faculty.

They sat in nervous silence and wondered if Gimli was right. Aragorn also found himself thinking about the content of Pippin's announcement, not just the fact of it. He must've found the election results. It was exhilarating, knowing that he won. Even if he would likely have it stripped from him before it was even announced.

Legolas, who had been in and out from the moment Sam and Frodo left, popped in again after a few long, still moments. “Mr. O'Gondor's here and he's furious. Elrond didn't even get him into the office before they started arguing – they're standing in the lobby. Boromir's there too.”

“Shit.” Gimli shook his head.

“What is it?” Merry asked tightly.

“Frodo and Sam. They heard Pippin's announcement, too, so they're probably in a hurry to get back.”

Aragorn nodded. “So they'll be coming back through the hallways.” He sighed and dropped his forehead into his hands. “This is a disaster.”

“One of us could slip out ourselves,” Merry suggested. “Someone quick. He could bolt all the way down to the shop room and warn them before they start back.”

“No one else is leaving this room!” Aragorn insisted, slamming a hand down on the table.

“Maybe it won't be that bad,” Legolas reasoned. “They'll see Mr. Elrond and everyone before they get close enough to be noticed – trust me, Mr. O'Gondor is not being quiet – and then I'll bet they'll just turn around and come back the long way.”

Gimli nodded. “But that'll take some time, and we'll still be worrying about Mr. Elrond coming back for that thing,” he said, motioning toward Boromir's gym bag. “Back where we started.”

“And that would mean that Pip sacrificed himself for nothing,” Merry added sadly.

Aragorn took a deep breath, trying to still the queasiness in his stomach. There had to be a way to salvage this. To manage the impossible. “Pippin bought us some time,” he began.

And suddenly the door burst open. Samwise and Frodo, both out of breath and – huh? – covered in mud, stepped into the library, looking like the bedraggled survivors of a war. 

Merry cheered, hopping up to take Sam's pack and pat them both on the back. “We were just trying to sort out how to get you back here,” he said, grinning. 

“Looks like they didn't need our help,” Gimli added, all smiles.

Aragorn stood and ushered them to to the table. “Is it gone?” he asked in a low voice. “Did you manage it?”

Frodo looked tired, but proud. “Melted in the kiln,” he told them. “And we remembered to lock the outside door again.”

“Did anyone see you?” Legolas asked, his hand on the doorknob once more. “Which way did you come back?” He disappeared out the door without waiting for an answer. 

He was back an instant later. “Gandalf's coming!” he hissed, interrupting Sam as the boy was explaining how Boromir had helped them again, in the end. He flung himself into the chair next to Gimli just as the door opened.

Aragorn had never seen the old man look quite so tired. He scanned the room with sleepy blue-grey eyes, his mouth twisting as his gaze fell onto Boromir's open bag. “I'm glad to see that the rest of you are behaving yourselves,” Gandalf said, shouldering the heavy thing. “I think we're going to call it a day,” he continued.

None of them moved from their seats.

“What's gonna happen to Pippin?” Merry asked. “And to Boromir? Are they in trouble?”

Gandalf shook his head. “They are indeed,” he said. “Exactly what that is going to mean is yet to be seen.”

“But you'll try to get Mr. Elrond to go easy on them?” Merry persisted. Aragorn thought it might not be wise to push, but he supposed that Merry wasn't really known for wisdom. “Since they weren't really hurting anything?”

“I'll attempt no such thing,” Gandalf declared, outraged. “I can think of no special circumstances that would allow Boromir to wander into classrooms he had no business in, or that would necessitate that Peregrin Took use the PA system for his own pleasure. This school is not your playground, Meriodoc Brandybuck.”

Aragorn winced. For a moment it looked as though Gandalf really were pissed. But then the guidance counselor turned to look at him, the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “It looks like you might have your work cut out for you, Mr. Elessar, if you mean to be a good leader next fall. These boys are utterly out of your control.”

Only then did Aragorn even start to let himself believe that everything was going to be all right. Gandalf urged them up – “Detention is over! Come on – it's time for you to get out of here and go home!” – and led them down the hallway to the front door. Merry collected Pippin's things and looked a bit nervously toward the offices as they passed.

Aragorn understood – he wondered how much trouble the kid was going to get into over this particular stunt. In a way, it wasn't nearly as bad as stealing food, but it could be seen as something of a fuck you to the administration, which couldn't possibly go over well.

Trudging down the hall, they passed Mr. Elrond and Denethor O'Gondor. Mr. O'Gondor angrily instructed Boromir to wait outside, then turned his attention back to Elrond, his words heavy and and insulting. “The decision to put him in detention in the first place was ill-concieved and thoughtless,” he insisted, fully aware that he was speaking with the person who made that very decision. “Punishment is all well and good, but clearly it's the company he's been forced to keep in these so-called detentions that had led him astray. My son is not a troublemaker – clearly close proximity to these,” he gestured broadly at the whole lot of them as they walked by, “ _delinquents_ has tainted his behavior!”

“They're good students,” Elrond said, somehow keeping the edge out of his voice. He patted Aragorn on the back as he passed by. “It's normal for teenagers to act out occasionally, but I assure you, Boromir has not been placed in detention with the moral corruption you're alluding to. These kids are some of the best we have at Minas Tirith; the fact that they let off a bit too much steam – just like Boromir – doesn't make them corrupting influences.” He tossed Aragorn a smile that looked genuine. “It makes them kids.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows and continued on his way. It sure looked like Elrond actually meant what he said, but maybe he was just defending his school. Still, he was going to take what he could get, and right now, a pat on the shoulder from his girlfriend's strict dad felt pretty good.

He was still smiling as he stepped out into the humid sunshine. Boromir and Pippin sat on one retaining wall, talking quietly. Aragorn was surprised to see Pippin – he would have assumed he'd be a flight risk. A girl with bouncy curls perched on the opposite retaining wall, looking fidgety and nervous. The youngest of the Cotton kids, Aragorn realized. He thought she was named for a flower, but he had no idea which one.

Before anyone had a chance to say anything, she stepped up to Sam. She opened her mouth to speak, but he reached out and took her hand, which seemed to stun her into silence. “I've been trying all year to think of how to do this,” he told her, his cheeks coloring. “And today I realized I was thinking too much, and so I just gotta do it.”

She smiled, a dimple appearing on one freckled cheek. “Do what, Sam Gamgee?”

“Ask you out,” he said simply. “I want you to be my girlfriend.”

She pretended to think about it – Aragorn didn't know why she pretended when she was clearly agreeable to the idea – and then nodded. “You've wasted enough time already, I think,” she told him. “No point in wasting more now.” And she stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on him, near the corner of his mouth. Sam grinned like a dumfounded fool.

Next to him, Frodo looked like a proud parent. Merry let out a whoop of delight and Pippin hopped up to cheer. Even Boromir smiled, though he looked strained.

“And who is this, Samwise?” An amused voice asked. Gandalf.

Sam colored deeply. “This is Rose Cotton,” he told him. “She's a freshman.”

Rose glanced at the old guidance counselor, her expression polite and just a bit impish. “We're both in the horticulture club,” she told him.

Bushy white eyebrows raised. Gandalf looked at Sam, surprised. “We have a horticulture club?” he asked. Ignoring Sam's look of outrage, the old man turned toward Pippin. “Your parents are on their way,” he informed him, his voice suddenly stern. “Bring them to my office as soon as they get here.”

Pippin fell quiet and nodded.

“So, how bad is it?” Aragorn asked quietly as Gandalf disappeared inside.

Boromir shook his head. “I'm pretty sure I've been suspended for the rest of the year,” he said. “That means incompletes in some of my classes.”

“Summer school,” Legolas groaned. “I've done that. Not fun.”

Boromir nodded. “It's that or stay back a whole year.”

Aragorn couldn't imagine graduating without Boromir. “This is my fault,” he said. “I should've come up with a better plan.”

“No,” Frodo insisted, stepping closer. “I need to thank you for helping me the way you did.” He looked at Pippin, who'd grown unnaturally quiet. “Thank you both.”

Boromir shook his head. “It's not so bad,” he said, smiling weakly. “We just took one for the team.” 

Aragorn grimaced. It was a pretty big sacrifice to make.

“You'll still be able to come to gaming tomorrow, right?” Merry asked. And suddenly he was off, a mile a minute, about the Dungeons and Dragons RPG he had planned for them. He'd made characters for them and everything. “But I guess we won't be having it at Pip's now, huh?” he asked, looking guiltily at his friend.

Pippin waved him off. “Nyah, this won't change anything,” he said easily. “When Mr. Gandalf called my mom, she didn't want to come down here. She has book club. And he had to call my dad's cell twice before he even picked up. Trust me, they won't bother punishing me.”

Pippin laughed, but it made Aragorn feel sad. Boromir threw an arm around Pippin's narrow shoulders and offered to share his own punishment. “I definitely won't be able to come and play,” Boromir realized. “There's no way Dad's gonna let me out any time soon. But I could send Faramir, if you guys don't mind. He would love it.”

Everyone talked and planned and said their goodbyes – not goodbyes, really, so much as see-you-laters. Then Legolas walked away with Gimli, their fingers entwining even before they got to the bottom of the steps. 

Rose Cotton stayed close to Sam, laughing at Merry and Pippin's antics and securing herself an invitation to the game – Aragorn liked how she made Sam smile. 

Frodo also approved, and Aragorn noticed that he seemed already to be letting go of the emotional baggage he'd been carrying with that ring. By the time Bilbo pulled up to take him home – Sam and Rose piling into the back seat – the color was back in his cheeks and he was smiling without hesitation again.

When Aragorn finally left, Pippin's parents still hadn't shown up. Merry decided to stick around until they did, keeping up a constant chatter. He didn't know if it was intentional, but Merry's conversation seemed to keep Boromir from slipping back into worrying about the outcome of his dad's session with Mr. Elrond.

Aragorn had to walk home that day – his mom couldn't get off work to fetch him. It was a bit hot for a three-mile run, but he was a distance runner. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He paused at the bus stop, using the bench to stretch his legs a bit before getting started. It felt good to move around a bit, to get some blood into his muscles after sitting still so long.

A shiny blue convertible pulled up to the curb, a toss of familiar dark hair grabbing Aragorn's attention. He stood up, grinning. 

“Hey, there!” Arwen called, her voice light with flirtation. “Where are you headed?”

He sauntered over to the car, dropping a kiss on her upturned lips. “I was about to run home,” he told her. 

She shrugged. “I could give you a ride,” she offered. “Or, if you'd rather...” Aragorn knew he'd _always_ rather. “They put up one of those little lot carnivals in front of Círdan's Hardware. Want to ride the ferris wheel with me?”

He imagined getting a wink from the ride operator, an extra-long ride with her snuggled beneath his arm, maybe even getting “stuck” at the top, where no one could see what they were up to. And he had some cash in his pocket – maybe they could stay until the lights came on, and he could buy her french fries or win her some huge toy.

“Sounds great,” he said, jogging around to the passenger side. He dropped into the seat, felt the blast of cold air from the air conditioner. He cranked up the radio and sang along. _The road goes ever on and on...._

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the hallowed halls of Minas Tirith High School, which takes its architecture and mood from Franklin Heights High School, which houses some of the authors' fondest memories. Sadly, memory means little to progress, and that beloved school is being torn down this summer to make way for a newer, shinier version which will doubtless one day hold the fond remembrances of later generations.
> 
> So, to Franklin Heights! We recall your passages and cranky vice principals and preserve them for the ages. <3


End file.
